A Little Piece of Sincerity
by Provocative Envy
Summary: COMPLETE: Hermione Granger falls in love with the harshly realistic words written on a small scrap of paper she finds on her way to Potions. She loses it, only to have fate play a part in making her the victim of Draco Malfoy's deception. HG/DM.
1. I

A Little Piece of Sincerity

By: Provocative Envy

> > >

Nothing screams provocative quite like a dusty declaration of love trapped in a heady cloud of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. Its tawdry and inelegant and the simplicity of those dreamy words is lost within that warped sense of romanticism that spurred the dreary allegation in the first place. Honor and honesty have no real meaning in this alternate universe of grimy street corners and flowery courtship; it's a place of irony, skepticism, and deception. The sun never shines and anonymity is guaranteed. A brilliant façade of poetry and polite conversation embellished with insincerity enshrouds this world's inhabitants, and their souls are blackened by a mystery too complex for their identical intellects to solve. They're indefinitely stuck in an oblivion unscathed by acceptance and fantasy. And they adore it.

It was starkly beautiful in its ridiculous realism. It might have been about denial, or immorality, or any number of unwholesome endeavors. It was the last line that struck her as haunting, however.

_'And they adore it.'_ It was so accurate. So thrillingly exact in its summation of human nature. Who didn't love to delude themselves into believing that all was well in their pathetically insignificant life? Who didn't instinctively ignore whatever unpleasantness they came across in favor of a misleadingly happy existence?

Whoever had written this appallingly honest description was clearly someone either depressingly sensible or horrifyingly experienced. The cynicism that so gracefully polluted the tattered slip of parchment bespoke of a subtle maturity generally not found in people under the age of forty. Despite this understanding, she doubted the author was a professor. This kind of observation was too raw to be an artful illustration.

No, this wasn't meant to provide a picturesque, yet consciously blunt, depiction of a massively flawed society; this was uncensored, understated, and far too evocative.

Her instinctive characterization, far from helping her discover the writer's identity, merely confounded her further. To her knowledge, there wasn't a single student of her acquaintance that she believed capable of capturing her own murky, surely inexpressible, thoughts and feelings. If such a magnificently rare connection existed with someone she'd already met, surely she would have been made aware of it already?

Slowly folding the small piece of paper into her pocket, she mentally checked and double-checked all possible candidates. Truly, her best bet lay in a Ravenclaw; their intellectualism and penchant for philosophy matched the tone of this excerpt. There was even a hint of arrogance cleverly concealed behind the opinionated formation of each observation. And everyone knew that Ravenclaws were painfully notorious for their conceit in regards to their intelligence.

Dubious, she continued her trek to the Potions lesson she was already inexcusably late for. The only consolation she could see in spending the next two hours with the Slytherins lay in the obvious fact that none of the dungeon-dwelling, inbred morons could have composed it: naturally, there would be no wondering if her completely unaware soul mate was sitting across the room, simply waiting for fate to find them.

> > >

Someone was whispering her name. Their breath fluttered across her cheek, caressing her skin and making her spine tingle. The solitary word, murmured so melodiously, did nothing to break into her delightful slumber; rather, it heightened her reverie, comforted her gently, ensnared her most delicate senses in a frightening web of oblivion. She was sinking into a puddle of irresponsibility and was eagerly anticipating drowning in it. Never taking another breath laden with cruelty and unfairness. It would be so simple…so easy…

"Hermione!" the voice shouted into her ear, effectively destroying her daydream. She jerked awake, a wisp of thick brown hair catching on her lower lip as she fought to mumble a coherent response.

"Who's there?" she finally got out, her tongue catching and causing a liberal amount of saliva to fly out and saturate the blank paper that lay in front of her. Mocking her, it seemed, with its flawless, creamy surface, so uninhibited by useless facts and empty knowledge. There was a wealth of potential in that single sheet of perfection; trust her to ruin it with a careless act of lazy typicality.

"Hermione, you've just gone and slept through an entire Potions lesson," Harry Potter hissed into her ear, his dazzlingly green eyes cloudy with anxiety. No doubt his confusion stemmed from the peculiar behavior she was exhibiting, without any obvious explanation.

"Oh, no, Harry, tell me I didn't," she groaned into the desk, mentally berating herself for allowing exhaustion to overwhelm common sense. "Snape's going to _murder_ me."

Harry's face relaxed into an expression that Hermione recognized as the closest he could come to outright pity: clearly, he agreed with her assessment.

"I'm sure it won't be all that bad," he said softly, turning his attention to the lanky redhead that sat, laughing, at his left. "Stop laughing. Pissing yourself while Hermione's got what she considers an actual _problem_ isn't going to help any."

As soon as Harry had spoken, Severus Snape approached the table, his greasy hair glinting in the weak light of the dungeons.

"Potter, Weasley, please vacate this room immediately. I would appreciate it if those of inferior intelligence spent as little time as possible in what I consider to be my personal domain," Snape murmured silkily, his tone an indication that his patience was waning and their departure was quite imminent to his own satisfaction.

The two boys were gone in thirty seconds flat. Hermione had never felt so betrayed.

"Miss Granger," Snape began, pausing to see if the girl was even looking at him. She wasn't. Her face remained firmly planted in her forearm. "Miss Granger!" he tried again, raising his voice slightly and elucidating his express desire to intimidate her with eye contact.

"Yes, Professor?" she gulped out, finally raising her head and glancing up at him.

"You slept through today's lesson, Miss Granger. It is only natural that this displease me, and I'm informing you that your punishment is a week's worth of detention with me every evening after dinner."

"May I inquire as to the nature of this punishment, Professor?"

"No. I'll see you at eight, Miss Granger."

> > >

"A _week_? For sleeping through _one_ bloody class? Crikey. Makes me wonder what he'd do if he knew how much _I've_ slept through this term. Quidditch has been bloody exhausting, I'll tell you that much. It's only about once a week I actually end up in my bed at night," Ron rambled on at dinner, dividing his attention equally between comforting his friend and consuming the mashed potatoes and gravy he'd piled onto his plate.

"I hope you realize how that last bit sounded, Ron," Harry managed to put in between bites of his own meal. "Honestly, someone might think you meant that you frequently slept in other _people's_ beds, not the common room chairs."

"Yes, Ron, the way you worded that particular sentence _did_ lead me to believe you were the embodiment of promiscuity," Hermione added, her lips twitching.

"What the bloody hell does that even _mean_? Harry, who else do you know who says things like 'the embodiment of promiscuity'? I tell you, Harry, that's just not _normal_," Ron said pointedly, glaring at Hermione in bewilderment.

"Oh, Ron. Never you mind. I was just teasing. After all, it would be hard to be the embodiment of promiscuity without knowing what it means. Now that I think about it, I really should limit any future descriptions I may have of you to single syllable words. 'Dim', 'dull', and 'thick' come to mind right about now," she replied tartly, sighing when Ron's only reaction was to stare blankly into his pumpkin juice. "Well, besides that. I think I ought to be going now. Wouldn't want Snape tacking on another week, would I? I'll see you both later, I suppose."

"Implying you'll come out of it alive," Harry intoned, winking at her when she rolled her eyes.

"Thanks ever so much for that expression of support and confidence, Harry. But I'm sure he only brings out the torture devices for you and Ron," she responded sarcastically, tossing her book bag over her shoulder and walking towards the doors of the Great Hall. She heard her friends laugh loudly at her comment and smiled as she eased her way through the aisle that separated the Gryffindor table from the Slytherin.

"Oi, Hermione, watch it!" Seamus Finnegan shouted, too late. A small spoonful of mashed potatoes was flying with startling alacrity towards her, and her gasp of surprise was muted by the burst of laughter that had sprung from the Slytherin table as the sticky white glob landed in her hair. Her hand immediately flew to the back of her head, evaluating the damage; her fingers met with the moist, slightly warm substance that had immersed itself deep in the frizzy brown mass.

"Oh God," she breathed, already calculating the amount of time it would take to wash the mess out. She'd never make it to Snape on time, not with this setback. Taking a fortifying gulp of air, she turned around to see who had thrown the offending portion of mashed potatoes. Draco Malfoy sat back in his seat, smirking at her in triumph.

"Looks like you got in the way again, Granger," he told her loudly.

"Looks like you missed your target again then, Malfoy," she shot back, vaguely noting that the confrontation had attracted a small crowd.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. One vulgar Mudblood is interchangeable with another, you know," he explained in that superfluous drawl.

His voice echoed through her head, her mind zoning in on that one awful, offensive term that had brought tears to her eyes as a first-year and now merely a sharp pang in her chest. She recalled how she'd never _really_ understood that senseless prejudice and the ostensibly natural disparagement she had to suffer at the hands of neurotic aristocrats bent on world domination. She still didn't get it; degrading a person based on bloodlines rather than ability wasn't logical. But she certainly had accepted the humiliation and recognized it for what it was: insecurity.

The supposed "upper-crust" of the wizarding world had nothing more than a family fortune and an inbred desire to exploit their ancestry to separate them from the rest of society. Magic had managed to outwit them and ingrain itself into unsuspecting Muggles, which was downright unnatural to those that considered themselves purebloods. Without their superior lineage, they weren't any better than a Muggle. For possessing some modicum of talent was no longer special: if a Muggle could wave a wand and get precisely the same results, what was to stop them from slowly altering the wizards' age-old way of life, the cultural stability that was outdated, to be sure, but so traditional, so…_pure_?

Purebloods had suddenly found themselves competing with muggle-borns for jobs and notoriety, for status and eminence in a world they'd long since decided they must reclaim as their own.

Hermione didn't agree with their misguided reasoning, but she comprehended it.

"Oh, go on and shove it, Malfoy. I don't have time for your innate insularity."

She turned her back on his retort, checking her watch and grimacing. Ten minutes. She had ten minutes to find a washroom, clean out her hair, and get to the dungeons.

She desperately hoped Snape was in a forgiving mood. Another week's detention wouldn't sit well with her conscience: she had NEWTs to study for, after all.

She was in such a hurry that she didn't even notice the small piece of parchment that had fluttered from her book bag and onto the worn, stone floor of the corridor.

> > >


	2. II

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

_> > >_

_Innate insularity_? Draco Malfoy fumed inwardly, his lips compressed into a thin, white line as he watched Granger strut to the doors of the Great Hall. Nothing rankled him like allowing someone else to get in that crucial last word. Letting an opponent walk away from their battle of wits was tantamount to being bested; and no Malfoy had ever been bested by a muggle-born.

Yet there he was, standing with his hands clenched into pathetically useless fists as he let the self-recrimination sink in. To most people, he knew, that moment wouldn't be particularly significant. But most people weren't Malfoys.

True, the basis of his familial pride lay in the fearful adulation that encompassed the majority of his feelings for his father. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your pedigree, this fact held little import for him. All that really mattered was that he uphold the Malfoy honor

Draco decided, at the last second, that following her would prove fruitful: he knew she had detention with Snape, and as petty a revenge as it would be, detaining her for even a few minutes more would be immensely rewarding. He could envision the Potions professor's wrath with the utmost pleasure while being intensely aware that the man's venom was not directed at him.

Grinning to himself, he hurried after the bushy-haired brunette, catching the heavy wooden doors just as they were about to close behind her. Shoving the door back open, he took a breath to call out her name, only to have his attention drawn to a ruddy scrap of parchment that was lying, so expectantly, on the worn stone floor. He was tempted to simply trample over it in his haste to reach Granger, but something about its forlorn innocence, its inability to _harm_ him, compelled him to bend down and pick it up.

Frowning slightly at the unfamiliar handwriting, he scanned the lines of script with a bemused expression, the words on the page blurring together as his thoughts transcended the sights and sounds of the Great Hall and merged into a surprisingly intimate bevy of contemplation.

It was fascinating, he admitted to himself, that another person could encapsulate his own emotions, his own view of the world, so perfectly. They described a place where lying was a regularity that could be afforded as well as revered. The likeness of this imaginary race to his father's friends, to Voldemort's Death Eaters, was remarkable. Perhaps it was a conscious portrayal?

Shaking his head at this completely uncharacteristic reflection of life and its counterparts, he folded the paper neatly into his pocket and glanced up, hoping for a glimpse of Granger rounding the corner. Instead, he was met with the sight of his quarry at a standstill, her unwavering gaze resting on him.

And then it clicked.

"Drop something, Granger?" he called out in a tone that, on the surface, sounded friendly enough; she was the only one who would catch the icy contempt he was so clever about conveying with his eyes rather than his lips. For it was his eyes, so unfeeling and unreceptively gray most of the time, that sprung to life when she was around: the derision and scorn that was emanated from within was her constant companion with Draco Malfoy.

The slight stiffening of her jaw after his inquiry had sunken in excited him. He knew she hadn't written the extraordinary reflection that he'd imprisoned in his pocket; a bungled prank last term involving a forged love letter to the Weasel proved that much. The elegant, sloping print that lent an air of sophistication to the grimy slip of paper was extremely different from the embarrassingly neat handwriting of McGonnagal's protégé. Nonetheless, he was confident that he was about to be the audience of one of her uncontrollable outbursts of indignation. Something about his seemingly harmless question had struck a nerve in her.

"No. Why do you ask? Did you happen to…pick something up that might have been mine?" she returned pleasantly, the only outward evidence of her fury the tense set of her shoulders.

"Oh, well that depends," he replied with feigned consideration.

Hermione fought not to roll her eyes.

"Depends on _what_, exactly? It's a simple question. You either picked something up or not," she ground out, inexorably irritated by his mild demeanor.

"Depends on whether or not I'm in the mood to help lowborn Gryffindors like yourself," he said with some surprise, as if the answer were quite obvious.

"Let me save you the trouble of making such a decision, then. I'd hate to force you to understand the difference between a desperate plea for assistance and common courtesy," she spat, incensed by his patently false implication of aid. It was only her frantic desire to locate that dirty bit of parchment that had forced her to engage in Malfoy's game to begin with. If she hadn't felt for it in her book bag and noticed its absence, she'd already be halfway to the dungeons.

"Granger, believe me when I say that my grasp of that distinction is more than adequate. It's more of an _ethical_ problem that plagues me; you know, handing over what's rightfully mine and therefore facilitating your own self-imposed misdemeanor," he explained neutrally, allowing his lips to twist into a cruel sneer as she stared at him, unable to speak.

"What," she managed, "do you mean, '_rightfully yours'_?"

He paused before responding. She was anxious, which intrigued him. He was certain that his impulsive retrieval of her precious little piece of paper was the cause of her unease. He realized, in that instant, that he had power over her. She was distressed by his claim to that parchment; the only thing he was unsure of was whether it was because he _possessed_ it or…she thought he'd meant that he'd_ written_ the blasted thing. But she wasn't stupid enough to really _believe_ that, was she?

_Only one way to find out_, he reasoned to himself.

"I mean," he murmured, deliberately allowing silence to fall again before he continued, "that it's _mine_. That I _wrote_ it and, consequently, that I have the right to pick it up off the ground should I happen to see it there. Really, Granger, is that so difficult to believe?"

He relished in the tremor of shock that slowly rendered her motionless. The spectrum of emotion on display was priceless. From restlessness stemmed disbelief, which quickly transformed into self-doubt; after that shrewd speculation took hold, which was almost immediately superseded by an almost childlike petulance. All of these were expected, yet they still held an element of entertainment that would have been sadistic had it not been so juvenile.

But Draco wasn't prepared for the stunning mask of disappointment that took over her features. He'd never seen someone so bereft, so abjectly open about their disillusioned regret. She had closed her eyes after he'd spoken, so fresh and tumultuous was her frustration. He'd never dreamed his pronouncement would elicit such a reaction. He felt almost giddy with triumph.

And then, when he was sure he'd gotten his fill of her distress, he walked away. He'd just gotten in the last word, and he had every intention of savoring his glory. He didn't even stop to think why his declaration had induced such a powerful result. All that mattered was that it had.

> > >

Hermione didn't register that he'd left. She didn't even pry open her eyelids as she stumbled to the nearest wall and collapsed. All she could think of was that those fantasies that she'd built up in her mind all day with that nameless, faceless stranger would come to nothing. Draco Malfoy was the elusive mystery writer of the few words she'd ever read that had truly, passionately _meant _something to her.

It suddenly didn't mean very much that she'd so fervently fallen in love with that slip of paper; what possible connection could exist between her and a deceitful coward more enamored of his father than he was of the very cause he claimed to support? He was the portrait of duplicity, and the antichrist of every moral she had. How was it feasible that he understood her so magnificently?

_Good job lying to yourself, Hermione_, she thought sadly, letting her head hit the stones behind her as she succumbed to the tears that had been threatening to spill ever since he'd finished destroying her senseless romanticisms.

"_'And they adore it'_," she whispered to herself, smiling slightly as it struck her she hadn't fully understood the truth in that statement until then.

Fate was indeed unpitying to allow Draco Malfoy to wield such a pen.

> > >


	3. III

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

> > >

Hermione didn't know how long she sat there, slumped over dejectedly as she recalled her torturous conversation with Draco Malfoy. The irony that it wasn't an insult that had shattered her heart, the brittle pieces cascading away to pierce her soul, didn't escape her; she wondered if the ecstasy he had felt after wrecking her fragile, very distant sense of self had come close to her own euphoria after reading his distortedly brilliant depiction of their world.

She doubted it.

> > >

"Draco, you'll _never_ guess who was sitting on the ground, like the pitiful little Mudblood she is, crying her eyes out with mashed potatoes all in her hair. Which is dreadful, I might add," Pansy Parkinson told him confidentially, her shrill voice causing his head to ache.

"Believe me, Pansy, it won't be hard to guess considering there's very few female Mudbloods in this school with extremely unfortunate hair," he replied with more than a touch of sarcasm. It wasn't until Pansy had turned away from him with an imperious huff of indignation that he let his surprise show.

He'd known that she was, for some reason, extraordinarily upset over his revelation. But that her distress had conformed itself into a public display of misery was unexpected. Granger wasn't the type to dwell on her misfortune; true, she was one of those sentimental females that got teary at the end-of-year banquets, and devoted most of her time and energy into helping others. But it was her very selflessness that made her his favorite target.

Contrary to popular belief, Draco didn't really enjoy it when, with a single cutting remark, he made someone crumple into a heap of self-contempt. Generally, his victim's candidly presented consternation was too easily prompted. Granger was a challenge for him, for her heart was not so openly worn on her sleeve. No, her emotions, when of the negative variety, were never discernable; she made each and every encounter worthwhile since he was never sure when she'd break down and bawl.

And now that he'd finally crushed her spirit, he had nothing to look forward to. There was no one else at Hogwarts whose nerves were quite as steely as hers, whose retorts were quite as bitingly witty. There was no one else who could keep him guessing, who could make him embrace confrontation quite like she could. Simply put, there was no one left who measured up to her in regards to an exciting form of resistance; Harry Potter was a pale imitation and Ron Weasley wasn't even on his radar.

Snorting with disgust, he abruptly strode to the door of the Slytherin common room and hauled it open. He needed to clear his head of any lingering shreds of regret. Remorse for him was foreign and guilt wasn't something he knew how to tolerate.

_If only she hadn't been crying_, he cursed silently, walking quickly and aimlessly through the halls.

Twenty minutes of picturing her as she had been when he'd left, shock and disappointment waging a war for domination in her eyes, and he found himself at the base of the stairs leading up to the Astronomy Tower. Sighing at his lack of direction, he turned on his heel to return to his dormitory.

Suddenly, he stopped. He could have sworn he'd heard voices.

Straining his ears as he cautiously ascended the steps, he pondered who could be up there, _talking_, so late. True, the place served certain amorous purposes in the evening, but none of them involved conversing.

Smirking, he silently stood in the archway leading into the circular room. He swept his gaze around the room and immediately ducked behind the thick stone doorframe. Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley were sitting, their legs pulled up to their chests, not five feet away from him.

His stomach plummeted when he noticed that Granger appeared to be weeping. Quietly, to be sure, but there were tears streaming down her moonlit cheeks nonetheless. Her voice was muffled as she let her forehead rest on her knees, yet her words were still clear:

"Ginny, you don't get it. This…this _composition_ wasn't just that. It was _moving_ and _beautiful_ and so, so, _so_ perfect. It made so much sense to me, Ginny. It was…it was as if it had been written for me," she whispered imploringly, almost begging her friend to understand her. The redheaded girl merely blinked at her.

"Hermione, I'm sure you're exaggerating. I know you said that you…what was it? '_Fell in love with it'_? But that's impossible. You couldn't have. You'd never even _met_ whoever it was who'd written it. And just because you found out that it was Draco Malfoy doesn't mean a thing. It's just further proof that you were making much too much out of what should have been a passing interest," Ginny said soothingly, softly.

"Oh, Ginny. It's not just that. It could never be just that. I…I had been _so_ sure that whoever had written it was someone I could love. You still don't see just how much I identified with what he'd written. It was so wonderfully extravagant, so appallingly flawless in its construction and its temerity and its _eloquence_. It made me feel, for the first time since I got my Hogwarts letter, that I wasn't alone. That there was someone else out there, just like me.

"Ginny, he doesn't even know it, will never know it, but Draco Malfoy hurt me more in those ten seconds when he so _casually_ explained that that parchment was his in more than just the material sense…than he ever has in the six years I've know him. He broke my heart, and…_I'd never even given it to him_. How is that for excruciating irony? God, I feel painfully stupid, Ginny," Hermione finished tiredly, brushing a hand across her face as she whisked away her sorrow.

Draco, meanwhile, was processing what he'd overheard as he trudged back down to the dungeons. It explained why she'd been so unequivocally upset: she'd gotten her heart broken. But, he reasoned, that wasn't really his fault. She was the one who'd so stupidly gone and invested it in someone whose identity was unknown to her. She'd realize, eventually, that it hadn't really been true love and then no longer be so traumatized.

But then whatever power he lorded over would be gone. Frowning slightly, he considered the romantic entanglement she'd instinctively attached to her supposed "connection" with the mystery writer. He didn't have to wonder why she'd dismissed the possibility so thoroughly when he'd announced his authorship.

Yet…could someone, if they had deeply and truly believed themselves to be captivated by love, so easily let go of it? Even if they recognized the hopelessness of it, even if they hadn't a shadow of doubt of the sincerity of their hatred; could one fall _out_ of love through being logical?

She had convinced herself that he'd broken her heart by pronouncing his accomplishment. He'd done nothing but admit the hypothetical truth and she'd decided that she was either delusional or tainted by fate.

What if he changed her mind? It wouldn't be difficult, since her ridiculous affection for that parchment bordered on obsession. He could just play the part of a tortured artist, plagued incessantly by his muse; or the sensitive, misunderstood bully who just needed to be nurtured and loved.

And once he'd won her over, once he'd gotten her hopes up once more, made all her dreams come true…he'd prove her wrong and break her heart. Only the next time, he'd know he was doing it.

> > >


	4. IV

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

_ > > >_

"What do you want?" Hermione asked him, barely averting her gaze from her breakfast.

The Great Hall was nearly empty, it being so early on a Saturday. Draco was never up at such an ungodly hour, but his ultimate victory over Granger had to be achieved. And if he had to be a morning person for a few days to accomplish his goal, than it was a worthy sacrifice.

"I think," he said slowly, hoping his natural revulsion for her wasn't evident, "that you wanted this."

Without looking at her, he schooled his expression into one of hesitance and indecision. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. Placing it unceremoniously next to her plate, he straightened his shoulders and walked away.

She never even saw his triumphant smirk.

> > >

She stared at the priceless slip of paper he'd _graciously_ returned to her. But that couldn't be right. Malfoy didn't do gracious. Malfoy also didn't do seven in the morning on a weekend.

So what was he doing? She'd caught, in their brief moment of eye contact, the glimmer of distaste that was so familiar it was almost comforting. She'd also noticed the effort he'd put into looking uncertain at relinquishing his prize from the previous day.

And if that wasn't enough, she couldn't recall a time when he'd done something even remotely thoughtful for her. Granted, she hadn't been particularly kind to him over the years, but he'd been the instigator of their bitter rivalry. She certainly hadn't called _herself_ a Mudblood during their first year.

In the six years she'd known him, they'd exchanged not a single pleasantry, not a single smile. She didn't consider herself a spiteful individual, but the insults she'd hurled in his direction had taken even her by surprise. They brought out the worst in each other, and those circumstances had satisfied them both for as long as she could remember.

Yet for some reason, they no longer satisfied Draco Malfoy.

She wasn't stupid. She could recognize feigned humility when she saw it. What she _wasn't_ seeing was the point of it. It was obvious enough that he expected her to fall for his exceptional performance. And she might have, had he not made the singular mistake of letting her get a glimpse of his eyes.

His eyes had always been the only holes in his brilliant mask of indifference and consolidated malice; she'd never bothered to find out if others were aware of this flaw in his façade, but it was enough that she knew it existed. Looking into his eyes was like getting lost in an ocean that wasn't blue. Forbidding, gray orbs that reflected emotion as easily as a mirror reflected light. They were the window to his soul, and she'd taken no small measure of delight in exploiting it.

Biting into her toast, she considered the motives he might have for pretending to be kind. Much to her consternation, she couldn't think of a single one. Had his hatred escalated into pure dementia? Or was he plotting some sick, psychological conquest?

The latter had some merit. Curious as to how he thought he could carry out his plan, whatever it was, she decided to string him along for a bit.

It wasn't as if she was in real danger of falling prey to his charms. But then again, she'd never really been the victim of that devastating smile; she usually fell somewhere between biting derision and outright apathy.

> > >

Draco was in a fantastic mood the rest of that day. He whistled on his way to classes, a jaunty spring in his step that everyone couldn't help but notice; he grinned at girls from other houses as they passed him in the halls, unable to contain his ecstasy. He had taken the first steps to having absolute control over Granger, and she'd _fallen for it_. All he'd had to do was not open his mouth and hand over what she believed was rightfully his: it was a symbolic suggestion of a truce, and she'd taken it by not lashing out and demanding to know his intentions.

Everything was going splendidly. He'd have to wait a few days to engage himself in the next phase of his strategy. Catching her off guard was practically the key to his success, so he could be patient.

He simply found it difficult to have to wait before he could see her cowering before him, her heart in his hand as he squeezed and squeezed until there was nothing left.

> > >

It had been two days, and he'd said not a single word. Two days since the bizarre incident that had left her with the dreadful feeling that she was the crux of a prank of terrifyingly large proportions. Two days since she'd left that piece of paper on the table, ordering herself to leave it behind and forget it had ever existed.

Yet he hadn't approached her, hadn't looked at her, and certainly hadn't spoken to her. It was almost as if he was expecting _her_ to make a move and force him to explain himself. And she knew, if he hadn't slipped up and truly looked at her, she'd be doing just that at this point.

But she was far too clever for that and decided that it was entirely probable that the missive had been cursed, and she was reading too much into one of Malfoy's idiotic games. It was likely that it was just a Howler with a concealing charm; ready to scream "Mudblood!" when she opened it.

Ruefully, she returned to her perusal of the text before her. She was searching for the final property of the potion they'd brewed the week before and there was little sense in thinking about Malfoy and his antics when she had studying to do.

And then, as if fate was set to prove her wrong, he tapped her on the shoulder, concern etched onto his face.

"Yes, Malfoy?" she asked politely, barely glancing at him as she turned the page in her book.

"I was just going to suggest that you look in _this_ book if you were having trouble with that last one," he explained, slightly miffed at her cold affability. She wasn't being quite as malleable as he'd expected. His statement had, however, caught her attention.

"Oh. Well, thank you, I suppose. I'm sure I would have gotten to that one eventually, though," she replied haughtily, snatching the book from him and turning back to her work. He was stunned.

She should have slowly turned around to smile at him, catching him with a carefully crafted look of absorption as he stared at her. She should have become confused, gradually realizing the truth behind his actions. She should have then been baffled, but utterly enthralled with his interest.

Instead, she hadn't so much as _glared_ at him. She'd been short and somewhat distant as she'd thanked him. She'd given him no chance to exhibit any of his predetermined affection, which was the whole _purpose_ of his mission.

"Of course you would have," he confirmed smoothly, still baffled. He'd meant to sound supportive, but winced as he realized the indirect condescension. Predictably, she was furious.

"Exactly _what_ are you implying, Malfoy?" she inquired icily, her eyebrows snapping together as she noticed that he was more than faintly alarmed.

"Nothing, I assure you. I was just saying…I just meant to save you some time," he finished helplessly, angry with himself for letting her see that traces of his real personality still remained.

"Listen, Malfoy. I have no idea what you've been playing at lately, but let me just set your mind at rest and tell you that I would be _much_ happier if you went back to normal," she told him with astonishing conviction.

"And what constitutes 'normal' to you, Granger?"

"You calling me a mudblood in extremely uncreative ways and me making light of your flagrant disregard of the sensibilities of others," she answered, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Well I don't want to do that right now," he replied petulantly, the heat of his temper clouding his mind.

"Well _I_ do. So before you marry your cousin and continue your incestuous line of purebloods, call me a Mudblood. Go ahead. I _dare_ you, Malfoy," she taunted him.

"You're not even worth it, Granger. You're too much of a Gryffindor to make it fun," he spat, his robes billowing about him as he strode out of the library.

That had been a disaster; he had to admit it to himself. Whatever progress he'd thought he'd made with her that other morning had been an illusion. He was no closer to getting that final victory over her than he'd been three years ago. She'd figured him out at some point and was no longer as vulnerable as he'd imagined.

When he finally went to bed that night, he was tired of thinking and tired of acting. He vowed to just admit defeat and go on with tormenting Potter and Weasley. Granger was simply…unbreakable.

> > >


	5. V

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

_ > > >_

Draco spent the next week in a state of phenomenal depression. Everything around him seemed dull and even the most charismatic of his acquaintances did little to alter his decidedly unpleasant mood. Jokes he would have laughed heartily at two weeks earlier held no element of amusement for him; pretty girls he might have attempted to pursue were suddenly attractive in the untouchable way supermodels and celebrities were: nice to look at but virtually unattainable.

He had thoroughly given up on dominating the tenuous, brittle emotions of Hermione Granger. He was appalled by his own cowardice; because, when it came down to it, wasn't that what it was? He was terrified she might prove herself better than him; stronger than him. He'd already underestimated her once. Did he really need a repeat of his performance in the library?

He had no intention of ever approaching her again: the girl who was so much sturdier than he'd believed possible, the girl who only cried when no one was watching. He was therefore startled when he heard her calling his name on his way to breakfast.

"Malfoy!" she shouted once more, the volume of her voice doing little to conceal the rage that had compelled it.

"What do you want from me, Granger? Going to insist I remind you of your distinctive lack of pedigree?" he sneered, loathe to so much as _glance_ at her, the one who had intimidated him into submission.

"Why do you keep doing it?" she demanded, without any further explanation.

"Bloody hell, Granger. What are you going on about now?" he said in exasperation, having absolutely no idea what she could be referring to.

"You _know_ what I'm talking about," she insisted in a low voice, her eyes sparking at him as she brandished, with trembling fingers, a rolled-up piece of paper. "_These_. These wonderful little novellas of the human spirit that just keep _appearing_ in the hallways, fatefully waiting for me to find them. Why are you doing this to me?"

He gaped at her in astonishment, his gaze resting on the parchment in her hand. His mind was working feverishly as he thought about this unexpected turn of events. Because of his dishonesty, and her trusting nature, she assumed that he was the writer of this second work of art.

She was staring at him, waiting for his response, and he had nothing to say.

"Never mind," she snorted in disgust. "Here. If you want it back, take it. I've had enough of your crap."

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the ball of paper at him. Without thinking, he caught it and watched her retreating form. Shrugging his shoulders, he unfolded what she believed him to have authored:

_A rusty needle was all that was left. The corruption that enfolded its beautifully uneven surface was like a flower field of decay; it was a representation of a love that had blossomed in the midst of distortion. It floundered in a pool of sorrows too deep to be seen, slowly fading into insignificance. With each passionate embrace, it was a countdown to the last; my bruised and battered heart could do nothing but crave more. Desire was our downfall and lust was our savior: the sweet purity of our amorous encounters was the only way to forget. Our desperate attempts at reconciliation were tantamount to betrayal: it wasn't until we cried our crimson tears that we realized we'd been delectably selfless. And yet we continued to pierce our souls with the ruddy perfection of a rusty needle._

_ > > >_

Hermione had left Malfoy and returned to her breakfast, seething at his arrogance. He knew the effect his writing had on her, and he continued to carelessly drop them in her path. And yet he wouldn't even _admit_ to his actions.

Sighing, she watched with subdued expectance as the regular barn owl flew towards her, bearing the _Daily Prophet_ she'd re-subscribed to earlier that year. Handing over her sickles to the bird, she grabbed the newspaper and gawked at the front page:

**Lucius Malfoy: Rescue or Escape?**

_One of Azkaban's most influential and affluent prisoners mysteriously disappeared from his cell last night. Lucius Malfoy was incarcerated for the attempted murder of Harry Potter on the behalf of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Officials insist that escape would have been impossible, but declined to comment when pressed with the infamous case Sirius Black. _

_Some suggest that his disappearance was due to a rescue mission put forth by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers. Experts say this is unlikely since he was the only one to go missing. _

_Yesterday, his wife, Narcissa Malfoy, had visited him some time during the day; one of the guards of this visit is adamant that nothing other than wifely affection was displayed. When asked if Mrs. Malfoy had perhaps slipped him a potion, or a wand, or any object for that matter, he responded, "Cor, d'ye think I'm an idiot, mate?"_

_Malfoy's son, Draco, attends Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and was unable to be reached._

_Malfoy's whereabouts are unknown at the present and Ministry officials are currently engaged in a widespread search._

_Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, declined to comment._

She looked up from the paper only to find that the Great Hall had gone quiet. Nearly two hundred pairs of eyes were trained on the blond Slytherin, who was holding a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ in a quivering hand. His normally pale face had grown positively ashen after reading the article; from what she could see, he wasn't so much as blinking.

Without warning, he had ripped the offending newspaper in two and stormed from the room. No one got up to follow him.

> > >

Draco leaned against the back wall of the library, letting his body slide down to the floor as he hugged his knees, willing himself to stop shaking. He'd been distraught when his father had been arrested; this was ten times worse.

When he'd been in Azkaban, it had been a comfort rather than a humiliation. He hadn't bothered to be embarrassed by the unveiling of his family's political leanings, simply because his pride was superseded by the love he had for his father. He knew that any manner of affection felt for the man would surprise anyone other than his mother: so he'd kept the reason for his indifference to himself, instead acting the part of superior aristocrat who wouldn't let a scandal interfere with his supremacy.

Draco wasn't worried about the impression this would leave on his schoolmates. He wasn't even worried about the consequences his father's "escape" would have on his own future. No, his main source of anxiety was in the second-to-last sentence: _Malfoy's whereabouts are unknown at the present and Ministry officials are currently engaged in a widespread search._

Draco loved his father to distraction; true, there was more than a hint of reverence in his feelings, but he still would have gladly died for the man. Lucius was a heartless murderer bent on being a sadist, he knew. But he didn't know that side of his father as well as he did the other. The side that had taught him how to ride a broom, the side that had pointed out the constellations and explained to him exactly what magic was; the side that had spoiled him rotten and taken great delight in his stunning egotism. That was the Lucius Malfoy he knew, and that was the Lucius Malfoy that was missing.

Draco had never been so afraid in his life.

> > >

She didn't see him until she had reached her favorite table and caught him in a selfish embrace.

"Malfoy?" she said disbelievingly, tossing her books onto the smooth, wooden surface and crouching down next to him.

"If you're here to laugh at me, Granger, please get it over with and leave me be," he said tiredly, looking up into her eyes and awaiting her scorn.

She was silent as she regarded him with no small measure of surprise. He wasn't mortified, as she'd originally thought he would be. No, he was…_scared_. Scared of what, she couldn't begin to fathom, but it was all there, right in his eyes. His soul lay bare in those fascinating gray spheres that enchanted her with their openness.

"I'm not going to make fun of you," she told him quietly. "I'm simply here to wonder if you're alright. I'm sure that article must have been a terrible shock to you."

He said nothing, just shook his head and leaned back against the wall.

"I'm trying to be sympathetic, Malfoy, but you're not making it very easy," she informed him testily, her patience wearing thin. At her pronouncement, his eyelids fluttered open and he stared at her.

"Easy? Tell me why," he said slowly, furiously, "I should make it easy for you, _you_ of all people, to be sympathetic?"

"What, you're immune to sympathy?" she fired back at him. He let out a bark of laughter.

"Oh, forgive me for doubting your compassionate nature," he apologized sarcastically, getting to his feet and shrugging off her hand.

"You know, I was trying to forget all the awful things you've done, said, and probably _thought_ about doing and saying over the years, but that's turning out to be far more difficult than I could have imagined," she said dangerously.

"Honestly, I'm not sure why you'd even bother trying," he replied shortly, attempting to move around her. She blocked his path.

"Because I knew I'd be the only one, you narcissistic jackass," she snarled, turned her back to collect her things.

"You don't _get it_, do you?" he burst out. "I don't _want_ anyone to care, I don't _want_ anyone to forget how horrible I was, and I _don't _want your sympathy!"

Her lips thinned visibly as she regarded him. Nodding almost imperceptibly, she pushed past him and was gone before he could utter another word.

She didn't know it, but she'd just made his day considerably better. Until she'd read what he's supposedly written, she would have never, _ever_, offered him any comfort whatsoever. She wouldn't have gone so far as to mock him, or taunt him in any way: she wasn't cruel. But she certainly would never have bothered to try and make him _feel_ _better_.

The only conclusion he could draw from her behavior was the one that made him most happy: even though she'd deduced that he'd broken her heart and caused her immeasurable pain…she now had an unwavering faith in his ability to turn into the boy of her dreams. Her _soul mate_, per say.

He whistled on the long trek back to the dungeons.

> > >


	6. VI

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: This isn't exactly a chapter in the story. It's more of a contemplative dissection of Malfoy's character, through Hermione's point of view, and certain allegations against him that she is slowly coming to realize may be true. This is the first time she considers the possibility that he might be lying to her and the chapter ends with her intention to pursue that particular avenue with all due haste. There is no dialogue and absolutely no interaction of any kind with Malfoy. However, I believe that Hermione's understanding of the truth should be extremely gradual, despite her intelligence: when one's heart is being shredded by one's enemy, it would be difficult to think clearly, if at all accurately. In the next chapter, Malfoy's going to have to step up his acting to maintain his hold over Hermione.

OOO

Hermione did not consider herself a confrontational person. Admittedly, she had been the instigator of several of her fights with Malfoy; but when one really thought about it, that was the only person she allowed to make her angry. She had long ago taught herself to view bullies with the kind of detached amusement only the truly superior could manage. Her problem with Malfoy lay therein: he wasn't simply a bully to her.

He had been her first, uncommonly harsh, introduction to the darker side of the wizarding world. She'd learned far too quickly that some people would oppress her, degrade her, and otherwise _shun_ her. And all this because of her birth.

At first she'd been unduly embarrassed by this singling out based on heritage. Shame had gradually turned itself into fury; fury into calculated apathy. She was far too much of a realist to believe that she could have, had she been slightly more mature, forced her initial reaction to be the one she'd had to _learn_ to employ. In retrospect she could recognize what she'd been unable to do as an insecure eleven year-old: behind the books, behind the haughty brilliance, was a frightened little girl who was terrified of rejection. Of change. Of embarking on a journey into a startlingly new place with unfamiliar biases and ideology.

A journey which she could never reverse, never go back on. Oddly, it hadn't been the thrill of magic that had been so attractive. She'd found most enticing the concept of finality. This wasn't like a novel she could throw aside without a second thought if she found it to be boring or bothersome; no, this was forever. This was her life. She'd given in to the temptation and made her choice: a foray into an excitingly different society would be dramatically interesting, she'd been sure.

One hour into her adventure, she'd regretted her decision to be bold, to be courageous.

She'd digested enough material on the history of the wizarding world to know the specifics of most of the derogatory terms used by its inhabitants. She'd been horrified by the bigotry and narrow-mindedness that some of the greatest and most powerful people in history had exhibited. She'd been even more aghast when she'd read about the Dark Lord and his grievous reign. What she'd never imagined was that her _schoolmates_ would actually have adopted these beliefs.

Upon her arrival at the Hogwarts Express, she'd been accosted by numerous other anxious, elated soon-to-be first years. Draco Malfoy had been one of them. Almost immediately, he'd demanded, in that superfluous drawl that she'd soon identify with torture, she give her name and lineage. Baffled by his seriousness, she'd obliged, explaining to the small circle surrounding her that her parents were both muggles and that up until a few weeks ago she'd never dreamed that magic could _possibly_ exist.

She'd been met with cold stares by the group of children—because, really, that's all they were—and was alarmed to find that any trace of affability had evaporated. And that's when she'd heard that hateful, _hateful_ word spoken for the first time:

"Come on Crabbe, Goyle. We don't want to be seen with the likes of_ her_," the blond boy had sniggered. "After all, who'd want to associate with a filthy little Mudblood?"

She recalled how she'd stood, shocked by those boys' flagrant disregard for progression and, most importantly, her own feelings. She was used to being ridiculed by her peers; a few years in the public school system had done plenty to douse her faith in the goodness of humanity. But even the naïve cruelty of her previous schoolmates hadn't prepared her for this kind of subjugation.

Quirking her lips at the memory, Hermione decided the six years had done little to alter Malfoy's seemingly natural inclination to be an inconsiderate egomaniac. He had maintained his unpleasantness, his callousness, and every ounce of his derision for anyone who wasn't a Slytherin pureblood. Which was why, the more she pondered the matter, it was starting to make less and less sense that he'd have written either of those letters.

She called them such because she'd long since determined that they had been written with _someone _in mind to read them. They might not have been the average love-note, but they were certainly just as meaningful. Perhaps even more so: Hermione had always been under the impression that constant declarations of undying love made those very same protestations seem a bit hollow and insincere. Surely the less it was said, the more special and momentous the protestation would be?

This reasoning was the majority of the basis for her doubt. A small part of her was still clinging to the faint hope that Malfoy _wasn't_ the writer and she could therefore continue her daydreaming. But that was her fanciful, feminine side that she couldn't allow to interfere with her logical, pragmatic self.

Malfoy had always struck her as the type of person who would thrive on attention. His past actions dictated that he enjoyed being marveled at, worshipped, and generally admired for the pureblooded prince he was; the fact that most of his fellow students feared him for the vicious disdain he invoked was testament to her theory that he would take prevalent notoriety over a clear conscience and only _mild_ popularity. So it only made sense that whomever he fell in love with would find out extremely quickly, since he'd do something utterly outrageous to let everyone within a hundred mile radius know.

These understated love letters were at odds with every aspect of both his character and his intellect. Not once had he ever shown her that he'd be quietly contemplative in regards to any situation; not once had she ever witnessed him show the kind of modest benevolence that was evident in the graceful curve of the author's penmanship.

In short, she'd reached the conclusion that Malfoy was lying. She prayed fervently that this wasn't uninhibited optimism, that she was being sensible and not letting her emotional susceptibility get the best of her.

While she could think of no reason Malfoy would wreak havoc with her heart in such a manner, mainly because he couldn't possibly be _aware_ of the effect he was having on her, she _could_ believe him capable of it. It was just the sort of the thing he would do, to deceive her just so he could get one over on her and snatch up something he had thought was rightfully hers. It was probable that the entire circumstance was nothing more than that: his momentary desire to be triumphant over her for just a few minutes.

Yet only she knew that if he was telling the truth, he'd be triumphant for far longer than a few minutes.

OOO


	7. VII

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**_melissa( )_**: I'd love to answer your question but I sort of _can't_. See, I'm one of those annoyingly imprecise writers who plan nothing and simply write what comes to me, when it comes to me. The result is occasionally decent, but generally not the kind of action-packed, conspiracy-littered novella that attracts a gigantic fan-base. My writing is reflective and thought-provoking rather than full of dialogue and creative plot-twists that leave one _dying_ to find out what may happen next. Because of this lack of formal planning, I can't say for sure whether Draco will have one of those life-changing epiphanies that will cause him to have feelings for Hermione. As a romantic, I'd love for this to happen; I kind of hope that it will. But since I could accidentally write Draco doing something utterly unforgivable, it may well be that this will have a tragically melodramatic ending with Hermione making one of those heartfelt "statements of inner-strength". One just never really knows.

OOO

"Hermione. Hermione? _Hermione!_" Harry shouted at her in exasperation, effectively freeing her from the trance she'd been in for the majority of the day.

"Oh. Harry," she blinked, startled by the volume of his voice.

"Bloody hell, Hermione. What's with you lately? You've been acting strange," he explained with some concern, looking to Ron for support.

"Yeah, 'Mione, you've been talking less. I almost miss the lectures on why studying is more fun than quidditch," the redhead put in, taking a bite out of his bacon as he watched her.

Hermione felt slightly guilty at the negligence she'd exhibited regarding her two best friends; she'd tried to make Ginny understand the situation as best as possible, but she'd also sworn the other girl to secrecy. It wasn't likely that Harry and Ron knew about her predicament. She was surprised, though, that they'd been even remotely aware of a change in her character.

"Sorry," she said with a rueful smile, "I've just been stressed out lately what with exams coming up. Only a few months away, you know."

The boys relaxed at the normalcy of her statement, their unease dissipating in an instant. They would never suspect her of lying to ease their disquiet; she could barely believe what she'd just done. Taking advantage of their unwavering trust in her scholarly nature was something that violated her strict code of ethics. She had used the stereotype they had ascribed her for a reason she wasn't entirely sure made any sense.

She didn't want them interfering in such a personal problem, was the thing. Ron had the most remarkable tendency to incorporate violence into nearly everything he did; Harry wasn't much better, but generally relied on the resentment he harbored for anyone other than Hermione and the Weasleys to blindly get him through whatever quandaries he found himself in.

The difference between what she had previously endured and her current dilemma was that this was a sentimental fix, not a physical one. This wasn't a run-in with Filch after breaking curfew, or sneaking out of her dormitory in an invisibility cloak to snitch potions ingredients from Snape. This was the sort of crisis that put her at no risk for expulsion; no, she was far more likely to get her heart broken.

And she knew that no matter their good intentions, Ron or Harry couldn't protect her from it. There was no spell to keep her feelings at bay, no amount of brawny intimidation to dispel such a colossal emotion; if she turned out be wrong, and Malfoy had, for once, been telling her the truth, there was no relief from the pain she'd have to succumb to. No reprieve from the fate she herself had sealed by prolonging contact with him; no cure for the agony that characterized the rejection she'd have to withstand.

She'd never wanted to be lied to so badly.

OOO

Draco approached her as she was leaving dinner. He'd determined that allowing her to think he'd been wallowing in self-pity and discomfort could do nothing but help his cause. Furthermore, he planned on displaying an act of contrition so earnestly she might be moved to tears.

"Granger," he called to her weakly, purposely averting his gaze when she turned around with an expression of annoyance marring her features.

"What?" she snapped.

"I…simply wanted to apologize for my rude refusal to acknowledge any empathy on your part the other day," he choked out, determined to sound regretful. He had let his eyelids flutter closed and could only _feel_ the heat of her stare as it rested on his face. She was studying him, searching for that hole in his mask; he was positive that she'd find none this time around.

"Apology not accepted," she said in a clipped tone, more than a little disconcerted by his flawless façade of sorrow. She could _almost_ believe him.

"I thought as much," he sighed with enough to remorse to render her immobile.

"Malfoy." She finally decided that asking him point-blank if he had lied was her only chance at getting a straight answer. He'd be caught off guard and more likely to slip up, she reasoned.

"Yes?" he said hopefully, willing her to say something that would divulge her vulnerability.

"Did you lie to me about writing what was on those papers?" she inquired unexpectedly.

He stopped breathing.

_There's no way she figured it out this fast_, he reassured himself with only the mildest hint of dread. _No one's that intelligent. _He mulled over her question, pretending to be considering a suitable response.

_But someone _is_ that desperate_, he concluded sullenly. He realized that she must have been so distressed by his behavior that she'd taken her last chance and accused him of deceiving her.

He thought about what might change her mind, what might push her into believing him again.

With a grimace of contrived hurt, he pushed past her and walked quickly away. Her confusion was almost palpable in the tense silence, the only sound in the hallway the echo of his footsteps.

"Malfoy. Malfoy, wait!" she yelled, frantic that she was losing her only hope at any semblance of inner peace. Running to catch up with him, she yanked at his elbow until he was forced to turn around. She was stunned by the remorse she read clearly in his eyes.

"Who do you think you are, Granger? Asking me something like that and expecting me to dignify it with an _answer_?" he demanded indignantly. She had the grace to blush, and stuttered her response:

"I…I didn't mean to…that is to say, I didn't want to…Look, Malfoy," she finally burst out with, getting angry by his charade of virtue. "Even _you_, the humble artist that transforms mere _words_ into…into _weapons_, must understand how difficult this is for me to come to terms with. You, the boy I've apparently _wasted_ six years despising, is the only person in the entire world who can capture everything I feel, think, and _want_ to the point of _absolute perfection_.

"What do you _want_ me to do, congratulate you on a job well done? Shake your hand and advise you to study creative writing at Oxford? I'm _sorry_ that my natural reaction was to doubt your honesty; I'm _sorry_ that you've been offended by my desire to at least have a somewhat civil conversation with you. But I'm even _sorrier_ that you'll always be a conceited, malicious _ass_ that I can never, _ever_ even _like_.

"So this is it, Malfoy. This is the last you'll hear from me. No more spiteful confrontations in the halls, no more impromptu food fights to make me late for detention. No more naivety on my part and no more acting on yours. I'm begging you to forget you ever tried to coerce me into…_whatever_ it was you were trying to coerce me into. I understand that mind games are something that it's more than likely you've grown up with, and using them on poor, unsuspecting, Mudblood Gryffindors is probably a favorite pastime of yours. But try and remember this, Malfoy: what you were doing? Yeah, you weren't just playing with my mind."

By the end of her tirade, her ordinarily dull brown eyes were sparkling with something unidentifiable, but oddly…_stimulating_. Draco was startled by her passionate outburst, by the tumultuous direction her psyche had taken her.

Hermione wasn't, by any means, the kind of girl that lost control. She was renowned for her poise and discipline; chaos was her antithesis. She thrived in orderly, strict environments where rules were enforced and upheld. Every one of her actions was carefully planned, assessed based on practicality and productivity. She loved knowledge and required facts to uphold her beliefs.

Draco had therefore never seen her collapse in such a way. This wasn't an exhibition of weakness, like her sob session with Ginny Weasley had been. No, this was a glimpse of the power and strength she could champion should she ever break out of her traditionally conservative shell. He had just had a preview of the _woman_ she was to become: he didn't know if he should be honored or frightened.

She'd made him feel inadequate in those few minutes she'd spoken; dirty and common and _cheap_. She'd put it into perspective brilliantly with her last few words: _'…you weren't just playing with my mind.' _How like her to sum it up so nicely. How like her to meticulously zero in on the only part of her rant that had made any sense to him.

She'd guessed that he had been attempting to manipulate her into something. She hadn't let herself follow that suspicion through, and had simply opted for avoiding him for the rest of her life.

Reflecting on his motives for lying to her and hoping she'd fall for it…

With a self-deprecating smile, he walked away, thinking that he couldn't really blame her.

OOO


	8. VIII

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: This is relatively a short chapter, but is vital to Draco and Hermione's somewhat _volatile_ relationship. It doesn't seem like much, but it's the start of a new beginning for the two of them.

OOO

**_Danish Pastry 28_**: I must admit that was more than a little surprised by your admittance to being uncertain of the direction this story is going in. Chapter seven was, oddly enough, a pivotal point for Draco; it was his harshly disparaging introduction to the world of selflessness. I purposely didn't make it obvious that an epiphany had occurred. So I suppose that someone who didn't possess my particularly _different_ way of thinking (which, coincidentally, is everyone _but_ me) would have difficulty in comprehending the particular moment of truth that Draco endures. He is a demandingly complex character and therefore requires subtle graduation to the world of the benignly sentimental: there's never anything exact in real life, so why make him any different?

**_Ever1_**: Hopeless romantics are fated to be misunderstood. But don't despair quite yet. I commiserate with you on the subject of being unable to tolerate Draco's somewhat unpredictably cruel behavior. Furthermore, it was difficult for me to even write, since I also suffer from a sentimental streak. But I'm not evil, and I'm even a bit self-indulgent: I can _almost_ guarantee a somewhat happy ending.

**_Noire1_**: I deeply appreciate _your_ appreciation. It's always nice to hear someone else pinpoint particulars of your writing that you have a specific fondness for. I, too, have to sometimes remember that I'm writing fanfiction. But it's a pleasant little foray into displaying my own portrayal of someone _else's_ characters rather than creating my own; still, I'm trying to give each one little quirks that give them that added element of authenticity.

OOO

Draco had come to the conclusion that repentance was a fascinating concept. The idea of self-sacrifice for the sake of someone who'd been unjustifiably _wronged_ was appealing on many different levels to him; the basis for his infatuation was that atonement was usually rewarded with forgiveness. And his thirst for absolution could be quenched only by the one person who'd induced in him a startling assemblage of guilt: Granger.

She'd somehow managed to appeal to the side of him that was generally associated with cowardice: the feeble, jealous, vindictive side that had impelled his treachery in the first place. Everyone had flaws, and she'd exploited his magnificently. He doubted she was aware of that, though.

Which was precisely the reason why he was intent on penitence. She hadn't manipulated him into this, hadn't done anything except speak her mind. Unfortunately, her blunt honesty had had a devastating effect on his emotions.

Draco couldn't recall ever feeling so _torn_. His conscience had lain dormant for so long that it was almost disconcerting to be bound to a remorseful edict of his own creation. Combined with his natural urge to obliterate his rivals, he had no idea where his loyalties should be.

His problem was that he'd had a rude awakening: he had never stopped to think about the actual _people_ he was hurting before Granger's admonition. There was personality behind those facets of nobility he was intent on destroying; there were thoughts and feelings and _desires_ that he was ensuring there would be no fulfillment of. And now that he'd appreciated his shortcoming, it struck him as strange that he'd never realized any of it before.

To his consternation, a solution hadn't made itself clear after he'd appraised his situation. Of course, he could always just avoid her and hope she'd forget about his deceit; but that was tantamount to weakness and he wasn't sure he could handle his _own_ derision in addition to hers.

It was as he was considering various plans of action that he ran almost headfirst into Granger, her wild brown hair suffocating him as she twisted her body around to avoid falling.

"Blood hell, Granger! Why can't you watch where you're going?" he demanded, rubbing a hand over his mouth to dispel any stray hairs that had manifested themselves in the open cavity.

The look she gave him was a mystifying fusion of scorn, nervous embarrassment, and righteous indignation.

He'd never been so enthralled with another human being.

"Oh, so the fact that I was turning a blind corner and _you_ were concentrating on your shoes makes it _my_ fault?" she replied heatedly.

"Well maybe it wasn't an accident, Granger. I think we both know about your…_vulnerability_ where I'm concerned. Maybe you _wanted_ to run into me," he murmured seductively, trapping her gaze with the vehemence of his own fury, which had permeated the gray confines of his eyes. He wasn't sure why he was behaving so abominably, or why he was letting anger practically consume him; he wasn't thinking, and the circumstances were deteriorating rapidly.

"Spare me the romantic insinuations, Malfoy," she sneered at him, a fiery red blush creeping up her neck.

"Who said anything about romance? I didn't know that blind stupidity constituted romance," he smirked at her.

"Blind stupidity?" she repeated dully, understanding too late where he was going with this particular accusation.

"Well, yes. Only complete idiocy would compel someone to fall in love with a person they don't even _know_," he mocked, reminding himself that this kind of power was exactly what he'd wanted over her.

"And only complete idiocy would compel someone to degrade another person for something they couldn't even _help_," she shot back, anxious as to why he still appeared so calm.

"Huh. How is that for excruciating irony, Granger?" he asked her, a nasty twist to his question that halted her retort.

Something was achingly familiar to her in what he'd said. There was a trace of mimicry in his tone, which baffled her. The only time she could recollect using that description regarding her current predicament was with Ginny. Malfoy couldn't possibly have…

As if in slow-motion, she remembered the minute details of that night: her tears, glistening against her pale skin in the moonlight of the Astronomy Tower; her voice, nasally and muffled against her knees; Ginny's hand, soothing and sure on her shoulder; the flicker of a shadow on the stairway when she chanced a glance…

"You _bastard_," she hissed, shutting her eyes against the gruesome sight of a beaming Malfoy.

"Now, now, Granger. No unfounded allegations against my birth; wouldn't want you to be an innocent _and_ a hypocrite," he taunted.

Without a second's hesitation, she had bunched her right hand into a fist, pulled her arm back, and punched him.

A sickening crunch pervaded the moment of shocked silence that had enveloped the corridor. With a violent curse, Draco clutched his throbbing nose, knowing it was broken yet somehow unable to feel the pain. He was far too focused on the girl standing in front of him, a dazed grin affixed on her face as she watched him.

She amazed him in every way imaginable. She was this pillar of strength and determination, of knowledge and virtue; then she'd turn around and exhibit the kind of emotion and melodrama worthy of an actress. She'd spurred his conscience into action with a few well-chosen words and inflicted upon him the kind of physical harm that held little meaning for someone of her principles: she'd view whatever petulance he showed as further proof of his vilification.

Slowly lowering his palm, he looked at her, an unusual spark of warmth in his eyes that she noted immediately.

"Good one, Granger," he said, smiling slightly. "You pack quite the punch for a girl." And then he was gone.

OOO


	9. IX

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

Draco sat down on the green velvet duvet of his bed and knew he was traversing dangerous territory. He was entangled in a massive conspiracy he wasn't sure had a motive or a purpose; he was aware that he'd suddenly become the victim, however. Granger had become a secondary character in the psychological thriller he was tormenting himself with: she had manifested in him an unnerving desire to be the hero. The Golden Boy. The guy who, after countless trials, tribulations, and dramatic monologues, eventually gets the girl.

It wasn't about being nice. It was about winning.

He'd realized, as soon as her fist had made contact with his nose, that the only way to beat her was to prove her wrong. In retrospect, he understood that his methods of acting contrite, kind, and downright _Gryffindor_ would gain him few points. He needed to maintain his normal persona, while at the same time adopting traits that she would respect. He couldn't be like Potter, that much he'd discovered.

Sighing, he laid down and turned over to his side, groaning when his still-broken nose made contact with his feathered pillow. Deciding a visit to the hospital wing was in order, he swung his legs over and pushed his feet into some slippers. Shuffling down the dark corridor to the Slytherin common room, his trek was disrupted by a shriek from Pansy Parkinson.

"Draco! Oh, oh, Draco! I have a…I have a letter for you," she gasped, panting from exertion as she looked up at him with expectant eyes.

"Pansy, it's almost nine o'clock. Where did you find this…_letter_?" he asked with some doubt, taking the envelope from her and glancing at his name, written so elegantly across the front. Seeing the handwriting, his blood went cold.

"Oh, well, a parrot delivered it! I was strolling along the Charms hall and I saw this massive red and blue bird pecking at the window. I was curious, so I-"

She never got to finish her story, for he'd already strode back to his dormitory.

OOO

_Draco,_

_Before I say anything else, let me express my immense pleasure at being able to finally write to you, like a father should his son. I know the past few years have been extraordinarily tough for you, but from the bits and pieces I've heard, it appears you've handled adversity quite well. It's just like you to make me proud, even when I don't deserve it. _

_I'm sure you're wondering where I am, what I've been doing…knowing you like I do, it's highly likely you're also curious about how I managed it. As much as I'd love to go into detail about it, I can't. Not in a letter. I'm not even certain this is going to reach you, since my…messenger may be somewhat unreliable. _

_I have nothing important to write except this: I dearly miss you, Draco. If I wasn't so sure that what I was doing, what I was working for, was the right thing to do, I would have never sacrificed my family for it. I would have never abandoned you or your mother to fight a cause I didn't fully believe in. You must understand that. I want, more than anything, that I could be back at the Manor right now, relaxing with a cup of tea by the fire as I read one of your letters, chuckling to myself at the antics of a schoolboy._

_But I gave that up, and I can't regret it. _

_Never doubt that I wish I could._

_With love,_

_Father_

OOO

Draco sat for a long time in the Astronomy Tower. He'd never stopped to consider what might happen if his father contacted him. Had never once thought about how he might feel if such a situation arose.

That, he recognized now, had been a fatal error.

He felt as if his world was being shredded into pieces too small to pick up and savor, too insignificant to be of any real value to his torn and battered heart. Hermione Granger and their idiotic feud seemed paltry and silly and downright _childish_ compared to what he had to deal with now. His father: estranged from polite society, escaped from prison, and…_desperately longing for a return to his family_?

Draco let out a bark of laughter, cradling his head in his hands as he thought of the headlines that would invoke. How the _Daily Prophet_ would adore writing a fluff piece on how _remorseful_ and _domestic_ Lucius Malfoy was; he hadn't really _meant_ to try and murder those teenagers a few years ago. He'd been under the Imperius! Yes, that was it. He'd been cursed by He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and it had ruined his life. The happy existence he'd led with his wife and son had been destroyed by the return of the Dark Lord. It was a tragic tale, but one that would surely sell millions of copies.

Draco could almost hear the reporters' interrogation.

Much to his relief, his nightmare was interrupted.

"Malfoy?" Granger gaped, looking unsure of whether she was disappointed that her safe haven was occupied or excited by another strange encounter with him. Judging by the frown that played across her lips, he guessed she'd decided on the former.

"No need to worry, Granger. I won't bother you. I'm just here…to think," he told her wistfully, belatedly remembering that his father's letter was resting on the flagstone floor. Her gaze settled on the paper, immediately sharpening as she jumped to irrational conclusions.

"That's not what I think it is, is it?" she demanded coldly, stomping over to him and snatching it up before he could stop her.

"Granger, I wouldn't read…" he let his voice trail off as he watched her eyebrows go up in astonishment. Much to his surprise, she thrust the letter back at him as soon as she recognized what it was.

"I…I'm _so_ sorry, Malfoy. I didn't know. I swear it. That was so selfish of me…I…I'm just going to leave now," she mumbled, ashamed.

"It's not that big of a deal, Granger," he lied, finding the presence of another person oddly comforting. He didn't want her to go. He needed _someone_ to distract him just then.

"You don't mean that. You can't. I mean…it's your _father. _I realize he might be a bit of a bastard, but that doesn't-"

"My father may have been a '_bit of a bastard_' to you, but I think we all know why that was, don't we? Can't really blame him, then," he interrupted her angrily, unable to tolerate criticism of the flawed man he couldn't help but love.

"What is your problem, Malfoy? Every single time someone tries to be _remotely_ nice to you, you shove it back at them," she burst out.

"No, Granger, that's actually just you," he retorted.

"Oh, well, thanks for the special consideration," she spat back sarcastically.

"You don't understand the _half_ of what you just said," he growled at her, reveling in her look of confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm _talking_ about how I've spent the past two weeks doing nothing but plot your downfall," he ground out. "If that's not '_special consideration_', please tell me what is."

"And let me guess. You underestimated my intelligence to the point of thinking I'd fall for it."

"Something like that. But I've decided that as much as I'd _like_ having all that power over you, there's no chance of it happening. I spent an hour in my room, screaming from the pain, after you punched me yesterday," he told her.

"You _deserved_ that," she said defensively.

"Of that I have no doubt. It's more that…I was thinking about it, and it was my father's letter that sort of made it all clear to me. Take him, for example. He's this villainous murderer, who's cruel, cold, and otherwise unpleasant; but I love him anyways. On a smaller scale, between you and me…if I had ever thought there was a serious chance of getting you to fall in love with me, I wouldn't have bothered trying to change at all," he said simply, getting to his feet and pocketing his letter.

She stared at him, disturbed by the direction the conversation had turned. It had started out so normally, and then somehow he was sitting there telling her how he'd tried to manipulate her attraction to his writing.

She had nothing to say to him, and sprinted down the stairs of the Astronomy Tower, his words echoing in her head all the while.

OOO


	10. X

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

It had been such a brilliant maneuver. She couldn't recall a time when she'd been so thoroughly manipulated.

He'd set her nerves on end, infuriated her with meaningless invectives practically designed to rile her up, and then…become human.

Hermione had never considered Draco Malfoy the type of boy to whom feelings of love and resentment could ever attach themselves; the idea of him exuding tender emotions had always seemed ludicrous. In retrospect, she knew that that had been naïve stupidity on her part.

She'd never looked at him as a _person_ so much as a representation of everything she'd come to abhor in the wizarding world. He wasn't supposed to have opinions or abilities that she might agree with or respect; he wasn't supposed to have moments of bravery or honor.

He was a pureblooded Slytherin who would follow in his father's footsteps and probably kill himself in the process. He was the bully, the narcissist, the boy whom cruelty was synonymous with. He'd tried to get her expelled, tried to get her killed, and almost succeeded at both: she'd never had cause to remember that he'd been born and raised just like every other normal child.

She'd been just as biased against him as he was against her. She could argue all she liked that he'd been the one to start it, but that wasn't exactly true. He was a product of his environment, just as she was; he'd been told his entire life to think a certain way, the same way she had. The fact that their respective educations were on opposite ends of the morality line shouldn't have made a difference.

She'd assumed that because they were both such radical contrasts to each other they couldn't have anything in common; in theory, they still didn't. But Malfoy had a side to him that was either very small or very well-hidden: he was contemplative, logical, and capable of affection.

She'd gotten a glimpse of the humanity that was cloaked in insincerity and lost in shadows; he was flawed, but that didn't mean no one could love him.

She wondered if he knew that.

OOO

Draco wasn't sure what had compelled him to speak aloud the thought that had plagued him since his father's arrest two years earlier. Did a man such as Lucius really deserve the devotion that he'd accumulated? How did he accept his wife and son's love without cringing at his own wrongdoings?

Was it because he didn't think what he did was wrong? Or was it because he returned the sentiment and viewed it as his salvation?

Draco didn't believe in good or evil. There was no black and white distinction between the two. There was what was socially acceptable and what wasn't. It just happened that his own leanings were on the wrong side of right.

Of course, his father's passion far exceeded his own in regards to their beliefs; Draco agreed with everything but his fervency. It seemed almost sacrilegious to worship as a god a man intent on destruction, but resistance wasn't an option. He had no reason to disregard his upbringing; no cause other than his family's to fight for. It would be senseless to fall victim to normal adolescent defiance.

He couldn't abandon his father when he needed him most.

Besides the pragmatic reasons for maintaining his position, he knew he had another motive, one he was far less proud of: he craved the Mark to the point of obsession.

It was a glorious symbol of freedom and he cared little that his desire might have been irrational. Once he surrendered the two square inches of flesh necessary for the curse, he would forever be beholden to something other than his surname. It wouldn't be about upholding the Malfoy legacy anymore; no, it would be about survival and loyalty. He wasn't battling for the Dark Lord so much as for his own carefree lifestyle.

His constant yearning for the Mark had always been a source of pride for Lucius. He'd never bothered to dwell on the thought that he was signing away his life just to escape the pressure of not disappointing his forefathers. It had always struck him as stupid to fight his destiny.

And because he already _knew_ what was going to be thrust upon him, why try and change it? He'd outsmarted fate, in a sense; fate was supposed to be unpredictable, was supposed to turn the tiniest mistake into the biggest of changes.

_How odd, then_, he thought, _that I've known my own future since the day I was born. _

OOO

"Hermione," Ron whined, "we're going to be late for lunch. Will you hurry up?"

Both he and Harry were standing in the doorway of the Potions dungeon, scowling as she meticulously brushed off the table she'd been working at.

"No," she replied primly, "this is more important than your stomachs. Snape will have a fit if he comes back here to find his tables dirty. And I don't know about _you_ but I'd rather stay on his good side."

"Hermione we all know that it's impossible to be on the good side of a man who doesn't _have_ one," Harry told her reasonably, earning a half-smile from her as she continued to clean the room.

"Yes, well, then better off not giving him cause to notice me, right?" she said lightly, sighing as she got to her feet. "You both can go, you know. I'll be done in a few minutes and can meet you in the Hall."

Shaking their heads at her stubborn diligence, the two boys left her in the dungeons.

Since the silence of the place often irked her, she began to hum a song of her own creation. She was off-key and being terribly loud, but she was alone, so what did it matter?

So absorbed was she in her singing that she didn't even notice his entrance.

"Good God, Granger, you're an absolutely horrible singer," Draco observed, his voice startling Hermione so much that she dropped the cauldron she had been holding.

"What…Oh, it's just you, Malfoy," she exhaled, a hand held up to her chest as she fought to regain control of her breathing.

"Indeed."

Nothing else, just a single word as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her.

Deciding that she was above playing his ridiculous little mind games, she turned her attention back to her original task. She finished her table and began to organize her own things to leave. She was using these mundane activities to hide her disquiet; Draco Malfoy had been leaning against the wall next to the door, without speaking…just watching her. It was almost as if he was waiting for something.

"So you're not going to ask me what I meant yesterday?" he finally said, just as she was making her way to the exit.

She stopped in her footsteps.

"No," she responded slowly, looking up at him for the first time that day. "Why would I do that? Your meaning was abundantly clear to me."

"Oh?" he raised his eyebrows in surprise, letting his foot slide down the wall to the ground. "I just thought you'd like an explanation, at the least. After all, I know how much you like to _know_ things, Granger."

She noticed his smirk, and was baffled. As far as she could tell, there was no subtle insult hidden in such a normal phrase.

"Yes, well, knowledge is the most valuable thing a person can possess," she explained genially.

At this, he grinned.

"Oh, of course. Especially when it's knowing who wrote the contents of some certain slips of paper found on the ground, right?" he asked mildly, waiting for the heady rush of triumph that would envelope him as he witnessed her face crumple and her eyes flash fire.

Predictably, she was wounded and furious. The tense set of her shoulders and the brittle line of her lips was testament to that. Yet…he wasn't satisfied.

He'd come to the dungeons on the pretext of retrieving a quill he'd left; when he'd heard her abominable singing, he'd been inspired. There was so much about her that only he knew, so many imperfections that no one else ever looked closely enough to see. He'd studied her for six years, searching for a weakness, a flaw. Until that day when he'd impulsively snatched up a grimy piece of parchment and read its contents, moved by its accuracy and astonished by its maturity.

He'd been presented with the opportunity to humiliate his infallible enemy, his impregnably perfect rival, and he'd taken in.

But then something had happened, something he still couldn't rightly explain. She'd figured him out in record time, and then…attempted to _comfort_ him when she thought he'd need it. Of course, it wasn't the point that he didn't need it, that he wasn't in danger of being melodramatically lonely. The point was that she'd been prepared to help the person who would have gladly seen her broken and bleeding at his feet.

Shame colored his cheeks as he watched her hold her head high and step past him with the kind of dignity that could make a Malfoy proud.

Dumbfounded by the direction his thoughts were going, he let her leave, embarrassed that he couldn't muster up the proper elation.

He'd gotten in the last word.

And he'd never been angrier with himself.

OOO


	11. XI

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

In the space of ten minutes, confusion had become Draco's constant companion. His head was spinning and his stomach was rolling. His lips were caught between a smile and a frown. He didn't know what he was supposed to feeling, and there was no one to point him in the right direction.

He had discovered he was incapable of enjoying Granger's distress, while at the same time respecting her own inability to fall prey to his taunting. He hadn't been guilty so much as _uncomfortable_. Without saying a word she'd treated him like a scolded child; her admonition had been the dignity she'd adopted as she swept out of the dungeon.

He was small and mean and dreadfully inadequate; in startling contrast, she had played the part of imperious aristocrat better than he'd ever been able to.

It struck him that she hadn't resorted to petty insults to get her revenge; she hadn't had to lower herself to his level to humiliate him.

How ironic, he thought, that the first time he'd managed to get in that crucial last word had been the only time he couldn't revel in it. He'd deluded himself for so long into thinking that as soon as he'd gotten one up on Granger he could be completely happy. He could continue on with his life in the manner that it had been dictated since he was a child. There would be no regret that he'd never been able to prove his dominance once he made sure Granger had no cutting retort at hand.

_Then what's missing_? He asked himself, laughing a bit too forcefully as he heard his chuckle echo throughout the dungeon.

"What are you laughing about, Malfoy? Did you realize I'd find this and are now ready to be victorious once more?" her icy voice cut in, surprising him.

She stood a few feet away, her eyes too bright and her face too pale.

"I…I really don't know what you're talking about, Granger," he replied, dizzy with remorse.

"Of course you don't. All you do is write them," she said, letting her eyelids flutter shut.

"No, I actually don't," he mumbled, watching her as she let out an unconvincing giggle.

Her eyes were big and brown and brimming with emotion; her cheeks were flushed with disregard. Her lips had parted after he'd spoken, and her expression was one of devastated insistence.

In the second before she spoke, she was almost dazzlingly beautiful.

"God, I'm stupid," she said softly, shaking her head and lifting a trembling hand to wipe away a single tear.

"Granger, I…" he started to say, but stopped when she glared at him, all traces of feminine sensitivity gone.

"No, don't bother, Malfoy. I have no idea why you'd bother telling me something I think I knew all along, but I suppose that doesn't really matter. What matters, apparently, is that you _finally_ got your splendid little victory, alright? You won, Malfoy. Congratulations," she shouted at him, her voice brittle.

"I don't want to win anymore, Granger," he murmured, his heart stopping as he realized what he'd said.

She was staring at him, her anger gradually subsiding, only to be replaced by dawning horror.

"No," she whispered, tortured. "No, you can't say that. You can't lie to me and make me believe you and then turn everything around like this. You can't. That's not fair."

"Granger, listen, I started off wanting to hurt you, but then somewhere along the way--"

"Didn't you hear me?" she demanded. "_You already won, Malfoy_. You already got what you wanted. Just leave me alone."

He began to argue, wanting her to understand that what had been so important to him was no longer eminent.

"Malfoy. Please. What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know, Granger."

"I don't believe you."

"I mean every word. Why can't you see that?"

"Because you're Malfoy. You can't mean every word. You never have," she responded simply, shrugging her shoulders.

"You can't believe I've changed, either?" he inquired desperately.

"After six years of hell from you? Are you serious? You'll always be the same. You're an inconsiderate, unduly cruel, and generally unpleasant excuse for a wizard."

He stopped breathing and snapped his eyes shut.

"Here," she spat at him, shoving a piece of paper at him. "Here's what you never were and never will be."

"I…It's just…Granger, I'm sorry," he managed to get out, opening his eyes only to see her running down the corridor and not bothering to look back.

He doubted she'd heard him, and turned his attention to the parchment that had sealed his fate.

OOO

_She had the slow smile of someone whose seduction is emotional rather than physical. The slight curl of her preciously plump lips is almost tantalizing in its imperfection; it's juicy and red and so delightfully enticing. Sweet honey orbs encased with sinfully long lashes are the highlight of the caramel velvet some dare to call skin. Smooth and silky and sickeningly average: her façade of normalcy is the only reason she's really beautiful._

OOO

She'd heard what he'd said and known that if she didn't get as far away as possible from him she'd cave in. The problem wasn't that he'd lied to her: no, she'd known that all along. The problem was that she believed him when he said he was sorry.

Her contemplation was interrupted by a hand on her elbow. Immediately assuming it was Malfoy, she turned around angrily, a harsh rebuttal on her tongue; she swallowed her words as she noticed it was Dean Thomas who had grabbed her arm.

"Hermione? You aren't busy, are you?" the boy asked nervously.

"Oh, of course not Dean. What's wrong?"

"Well, I was wondering…you didn't happen to see a piece of paper on the ground on your way out of Potions, did you? See, because I wrote something…for, uh, for Diviniation…and it's really very important and I would be very much obliged if you had happened upon it," he burst out in a rush.

She gaped at him, her curiosity dissipating as she realized the implication of what he'd said. She hadn't stopped to consider that now that Malfoy had divulged his dishonesty, she could go back to finding her true love, the _real_ writer.

Studying Dean Thomas, so different from the suave, debonair artist she'd envisioned, she thought how foolish she'd been to think she could fall in love with some words a stupid little boy had scribbled on the bottom of his notes.

Draco Malfoy had been right. He'd seen what she'd been far too delusional to see for herself.

Admitting that she'd been wrong and he'd been right scared her. It made it that much more likely that it could happen again.

It made it that much more likely that she could have just thrown away the best thing that could have happened to her.

OOO


	12. XII

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**_Danish Pastry 28_**: Your review, oddly enough, inspired me. As a general rule, the "subconscious" business bothers me. But then I thought about it, and realized that you were right. Little tiny things Hermione thought or did gave the impression that she loved the proverbial antagonist; that had certainly _not_ been my intention, but I suppose I can't really help what the individual chapters I write turn into as a whole. So, I started off intending to answer your question in the negative, because when I first read your take on it, I was apprehensive that someone who'd grasped the story so well before had missed the mark by so much this time. However, I then took the time out of my not-so-busy summer schedule and reread the entire fic, and found, to my surprise and consternation, that I'd written into Hermione's character a strange, depressing attraction to Draco. Naturally, since I write without any real direction, I didn't understand my _own_ writing until a day after I'd posted it.

OOO

Draco let his head fall back as he closed his eyes and inhaled the damp air of the dungeons. It had been three long days since he'd been so ruthlessly dismissed from her life. Three long days of indecision and embarrassment, of vacillation and humility.

He'd been rejected, but he wasn't sure what he'd been offering.

She didn't realize that it wasn't her affection he wanted: it was her respect. He didn't care so much that she liked him as long as she admired him. He'd never so desperately desired clemency as he had when he'd chanced a look into those marvelously expressive brown eyes and seen her hesitate.

But in the end she'd sprinted away, unwilling to forgive him for the harsh words and cowardly actions that he'd delighted in for six years. She didn't even stop and consider how much he'd given up to apologize to her: he'd forsaken everything he believed in just to get a nod of approval from a girl he didn't even _like_.

Snapping his eyes open, he jerked his head forward, staring at the wall opposite him as he contemplated his situation.

He supposed that it had been a culmination of mixed emotions that had spurred him to act so rashly, so stupidly. He hadn't _meant_ what he'd said so much as recognized its power.

But she'd hurt him. She'd been so wrapped up in how it all made _her_ feel. She'd been selfish and stupid and she deserved everything she got.

There was next to no chance he'd ever win with her, not in a way he could truly appreciate.

Hurting her right back would have to suffice. If he did it enough, surely he could come to enjoy it again?

OOO

Hermione had no idea what she was supposed to do. And as someone who prided herself on thinking clearly in any situation, she thought how fitting it was that Draco Malfoy would be the one to obliterate her common sense.

No on else elicited the kind of overwhelming emotions he did. True, they were primarily anger and agony, but she knew better than any that there was a very thin line between hate and love.

She remembered how she'd been so sure that the writer of those notes had been her soul mate. That someone who so clearly understood her own feelings would have to be her true love.

But now that she knew who it was, now that she could forever eliminate Draco from her heart, she felt…empty.

She'd spent so long disliking him that it seemed impossible to imagine life without him. If he were to die tomorrow and never say another word to her, it wouldn't make her happy. She would miss hating him, simply because it was something she was passionate about.

She knew how love worked. She knew that it would make every other person around her pale in comparison. But while it was doubtful that she could ever come to like anything about Draco Malfoy, it was even less likely that anyone else could make her _feel_ like he could.

She couldn't risk trying to forget about him. What if he had meant everything he'd said? What if he had truly wanted her to know he was sorry?

Could whoever he'd suddenly changed into really erase six years of hell from her memory?

She had to know.

As she set off to find him, unsure of how she would broach the subject, she had the fleeting thought that there was no turning back after this. She'd either be in love or have her heart broken. Again.

OOO

She came upon him in the Astronomy Tower. He was leaning against the windowsill, his arms crossed over the rough surface as he breathed in the cool night air. He didn't even hear her come up the stairs, so absorbed was he in the sky.

"Malfoy," she said hesitantly, destroying the pleasant reverie he'd built up for himself.

"What the…Oh. It's you," he replied indifferently, turning his attention back to the stars.

"I…just wanted to ask you something," she explained defensively, dumbfounded by his reaction.

"Do what you want, Granger. I'm surprised you think I care, though. You've made it abundantly clear that you don't want me to have anything to do with you," he answered apathetically, shrugging his shoulders and glancing coldly at her face.

"I…Well, that is…Did you mean it? Did you mean what you said?" she finally asked nervously.

He was quiet for so long that she nearly jumped when he responded:

"Are you serious? There's no way you _actually fell for that_," he laughed cruelly, the sound cutting into Hermione much like a knife.

She closed her eyes slowly, willing back her tears.

He hadn't changed. That much was obvious. She had been so _stupid_ to think he could be even remotely humane. He didn't have feelings, not like normal people. It was all about him, all about how far he could get and how many people he could trample over in the process. As long as he won, it didn't matter who got hurt.

As long as he won, it didn't matter what he had to say to do it. It didn't matter that she'd fallen for it.

It didn't matter that she'd just walked into a trap.

All she wanted to do was run away, just like she had after their last encounter. She wanted to curl up in her dormitory with a pillow and a box of tissues and cry away her shame. He'd succeeded in being the condescending bully: and she'd let him break her heart once more. The difference, she knew, lay in that this time she'd had a choice, this time it was for real.

And that was when her pain was immediately replaced with unabashed fury.

"Of course not," she snorted flippantly, "I was trying to see how far you'd go to win, Malfoy. Lucky for me you're an underachiever."

"Yes, and lucky for me you're a terrible liar."

"Well you'd think I'd have figured _that_ out by now. Since I'm so good at being the _victim_, right Malfoy?" she seethed, not caring about what she said as long as she hurt him, just like he'd hurt her.

"So sorry for taking advantage of your numerous _weaknesses_, Granger. You make it far too easy."

"And hiding behind a false apology is so much better?"

"At least I'm not as gullible as _Longbottom_," he shot back.

"Oh, come off it! You're trying to be evil, like Dear Old Dad, and it's sort of sounding like teenaged petulance, Malfoy!" she shouted, her cheeks flushed red.

"Where'd you learn that on, Granger? One of the man _books_ you substitute actual friends with?"

"Since self-absorbed Slytherins who fail to be loyal to their own _elected_ Ministers are just _such_ great friends?"

"Don't talk about things you know next to nothing about, Granger. You can't learn everything from a book, you know," he whispered dangerously, advancing on her with a predatory grace.

"You're right, Malfoy. You can't learn the basics of having _morals_ from a book. Maybe that's why you sorely lack them," she retorted heatedly, her rage preventing her from noticing his slow progress.

"When it comes down to it, Granger, let me explain one important fact: _morals can't save you_."

With that, he elbowed past her and stalked from the room, his teeth glinting in the moonlight as he smiled at the success of his ploy.

Who would have guessed he'd been acting?

OOO


	13. XIII

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

Draco had never considered himself to be particularly vindictive. He was degrading, malicious, and offensive; but never ruthlessly bitter.

He'd managed to surprise himself with the vehemence of his angry reaction to her prodding. He'd meant every rancorous word, yet wanted to take them all back as soon as he'd seen her spluttering with rage.

It seemed he was inextricably caught in a web of insecurity and confusion; he was playing the parts of two completely different people and had no idea who was writing his lines.

One moment he would want nothing more than to see her bleeding and broken in a heap of despondency at his feet; the next, he'd be restless with remorse, pacing through the halls and searching for a way to comfort her, protect her from himself. His erratic behavior was doing nothing but entangling him even more in a conspiracy of his own creation: he was taking them both on dangerous rides through the extremes of human emotion.

He'd broken her heart more times than he could count. He should have been satisfied after the first, albeit incongruous, time; but he'd been greedy, so intent on ruining her that he hadn't stopped to consider the consequences of his own involvement. Somewhere between instilling a shameless sense of faith in her and annihilating that hope, all in the same day, he'd lost himself.

He was no longer content with hurting her; no, it seemed his discomfiture merely trebled in size after he fired insult after insult at her. His iniquitous tendencies were forced and it was this compulsory feel of his dissipation that made him that much more determined to harm her.

His desire to go back to normal was opposed by his even stronger need to _shelter _her. He wanted to ensure her safety, shield her from the horrible effronteries he himself had tossed in her direction for going on six years. It was a backwards and unexpected and utterly perplexing instinct, but he'd realized it as soon as he'd watched her hold back the tears that had threatened her dignity.

He knew that a week earlier he would have reveled in her show of weakness, would have crowed with triumph at her near surrender; but he hadn't and that fact had infuriated him so much that he'd lashed out at the one person he wanted to be left unscathed.

He was almost imminently aware, however, that he couldn't give in to his strange new impulses. There was literally no reason to personify a cliché and turn himself into a blonder version of Potter.

Fate was offering him an alternate route, handing him the excitement of embarking on a journey to the unknown; he to be just as strong as Granger, though. He had to go back to being hateful and intolerable…whether he liked it or not.

OOO

Hermione was silent as she regarded Harry and Ron.

They'd confronted her in the Common Room, their concern so genuine, so awkwardly sincere, that she immediately melted.

"Hermione, we've just been so worried about you lately," Harry was saying, his gentle voice eroding the barriers she'd erected around her heart since the escapade with Malfoy in the Astronomy Tower.

"Oh, Harry. I've been worried about _myself_ lately," she confessed, allowing Ron's arms to encase her in a tender hug as she sobbed out the whole sordid story.

"I _fell_ for it, Harry. I let him see me at my worst, when I was vulnerable and disgraced and _stupid_," she cried into his shoulder, her eyes closed and unable to see the menacing glare shared between the two boys.

"It'll all turn out alright, Hermione. We promise," Ron told her, rubbing her shoulder with his hand.

"Yeah. If he comes near you ever again…well, let's just say I won't hold back Ron anymore," Harry continued.

"No, Harry! I can't let you both get in trouble over something as silly as this," she argued, sniffing a bit as she looked at them. "I…Just…Just don't leave me alone for awhile, okay? Please. I just don't want…I don't want to…I never want to see him again."

OOO

Draco strode out of Potions, his robes billowing behind him as his eyelids gracelessly drifted shut and he turned the corner. He wasn't watching where he was going, and his elbow hit her, accidentally.

"Hey! Malfoy! What was that for?" Potter yelled after him, ignoring Granger's plea to remain quiet.

"Potter, surely with glasses that thick you can see an accident for what it is?" Draco responded without glancing back, continuing his walk.

"Why can't you just leave her alone, Malfoy?" Ron shouted, grabbing Hermione and hooking his arm around her waist.

Draco turned around slowly, willing himself to remain calm. He noted Granger's cowering stance, her face turned down as she let Weasley be her champion. It was so unlike her, so astonishingly uncharacteristic, that he nearly commented on it.

He wanted to ask her why she was letting someone so unworthy protect her; why she wasn't fighting her own battles, why she wasn't being as brave as he knew she could be. He wanted to pry Weasley's fingers from her body, replacing them with his own and proving his ability to defend her.

He could do it so much better than either of the Wonder Twins, if only she'd let him.

Shaking his head at the three of them, he sauntered away, paying no heed to their loud protests and pointless indignation at being snubbed.

He didn't trust himself around her anymore: and it was the most frightening thought he'd ever had.

OOO

Hermione stared after him, her heart beating too fast and her lips remaining parted too long.

She'd never been more conscious of physical contact as Ron's skin rubbed intimately against hers. It was supposed to be comforting.

Yet rather than providing a heady reassurance of friendship, it made her nauseous.

She'd turned into one of those simpering females that required a dramatic rescue every time she was assaulted by even the most mundane danger. She was letting Harry and Ron be her saviors, and it had never felt so wrong.

_Trust Malfoy to point it out to me_, she thought dismally.

OOO


	14. XIV

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: As much as I hate embroiling any reader with flighty details of my personal life, I feel like I have to offer an explanation for whatever traces of bitterness may be found in this particular chapter. It's been commented that I update virtually every day, and I'm so good about it, etc. Well, I missed two days. And that has a lot to do with the ending of the two-and-a-half-year relationship I was in. I've spent the last 48 hours in a remarkable daze, stumbling through the routine of everyday life and thinking about fate. The irony of writing a romantic chapter while I'm _personally_ uncertain of anyone's happy ending doesn't entirely escape me. Which is why I'm apologizing beforehand for what I view as a somewhat _lackluster_ scene at the end of this chapter. I know that no one particularly cares about my problems, and normally I would never presume to talk about them like this. I'm a private person, but good manners pretty much dictate that I let all of you who were expecting a heart-meltingly perfect declaration of love in on why I avoided such a sappy end to this chapter.

OOO

Hermione had berated herself too many times for falling prey to Draco Malfoy and his illicitly dishonest, unspoken promises. She was too tired of making excuses for him, allowing his lies to maladroitly permeate her senses while her sanity spiraled out of her control and straight into his.

She was tired of feeling torn whenever she criticized him, tired of being driven away from her derision by simple acts of humanity. He kept letting her believe him, letting her think the best and then proving her wrong.

He was so much craftier than she'd ever imagined. So much more adept at wily behavior and cunning schemes of revenge. He'd pegged her weakness with almost disturbing precision; he was exploiting it with the kind of single-minded dexterity that she hadn't dreamed anyone but herself capable of.

He was taking pleasure in her pain, turning her into someone she didn't like, turning her into the type of person that hid behind her friends, too scared to face her greatest fear: infinite knowledge of her character.

With that almost imperceptible shake of his head, he'd summed up his power over her in a wonderfully neat little package: a gesture, a word, a _look_, and she was gone.

It was ironic that in a world full of magic, the place where she should _technically_ come out victorious, given her vast knowledge of charms and curses, he would triumph. In the supreme confidence she'd lorded over him for six whole years, she'd never thought of herself as vulnerable. She'd never considered the idea that he might be in possession of something that could eventually spell her downfall.

He'd broken her heart, and she'd never had any intention of giving it to him.

She'd always assumed that she'd have to be in love for something that ridiculously excruciating to happen. She'd always assumed that she'd be able to dictate who held her fragile embodiment of romanticism in their hand.

But somewhere along the line, at some long-past moment she couldn't pinpoint, she'd let it slip out of her grasp, and straight into Malfoy's. And he'd realized it and taken advantage of it, like some kind of nightmare come to life.

It wasn't _him_ she was afraid of; no, she was terrified of what he could do to her. She could insult him all she wanted, could engage him in long-winded arguments that served no purpose other than to illustrate her hatred.

As long as he didn't guess that she wished, more than anything, that he hadn't lied to her. That he'd been telling the truth and she could go back to alternately fantasizing about him changing and him dying a horribly violent death.

As filled as she'd been with confusion and doubt and a thousand and one other unidentifiable emotions, it was only in the aftermath of their dramatic encounters that she understood what she'd been so oblivious to for as long as she could remember: the wistful ecstasy that encompassed her blind faith in him was almost worth the agony of his dissension.

But only almost.

OOO

Draco lifted a trembling hand to his temple and considered the emptiness that had engulfed him since his run-in with Granger and her friends. He kept picturing the lanky, unworthy arm of Weasley draped so carelessly across her back, his long fingers gripping the curve of her waist.

Nothing had ever so forcibly struck him as wrong.

He couldn't name the gnawing sensation that was growing in his stomach, couldn't distinguish with any certainty what it was that had consumed him and was causing him more heartache than anything else ever had.

He'd recognized the bereft bleakness that had enveloped him after his father's whereabouts had been declared unknown. He'd recognized the disillusionment that had encased his soul after having his senseless apology thrown back at him.

But he didn't recognize whatever it was that was tearing him up so much more efficiently than fear ever had.

Granger was so deliciously imperfect, for all her condescension and pretentiousness. He was enthralled by her ability to hide her flaws, to only show her brilliance and her kindness and her _morality_; he'd seen past her façade of accomplishments, but only because he'd been looking so hard.

He'd wanted so badly for so long to just _hurt_ her, no matter the consequence. He'd wanted so badly to see her cry, to see her break, to make sure that everyone else knew she was a fraud; he'd wanted to destroy the serenity of her self-assuredness, to have her be viewed as the cowardly victim for once.

But then he'd done it, he'd somehow gotten hold of her, and he'd hated himself more than her. He'd finally managed to crush her spirit, ruin her, and he'd said he was _sorry_.

What had started out as a fake show of contrition and ethical buoyancy had turned real; he wasn't pretending anymore, he wasn't showing off his "newfound benevolence" for her sake. He didn't want to see her degraded and broken, corrupted with the hypocrisy that had been his sense of self for as long as he could remember.

She was his little piece of sincerity, and he _needed_ her. It didn't matter that she was the only one to inspire him, it didn't matter that he was still the jaded and generally unpleasant bully.

He needed her, and she had to know.

OOO

"Granger!" he called out, jogging after her retreating form as she ascended the steps to the Astronomy Tower.

As soon as he reached her, she whipped her head around, piercing him with a glare and not speaking.

"Granger, I need to talk to you," he said breathlessly, thoroughly winded from his exertion.

"Well, I don't _want_ to talk to you," she replied with some petulance, inwardly shaking at his nearness.

Any second, she'd be in her sweet nirvana, allowing herself the satisfaction of thinking he could be different.

Any second, and she'd be in his grasp once more.

Only she knew that if she didn't get away, if she didn't escape him and his silent duplicity, she would be lost.

"Please, Granger. _Please_," he whispered desperately, his heightened awareness picking up her resignation.

"What do you want?" she inquired tonelessly, refusing to meet his probing gray eyes.

She'd once thought that she could see everything he was feeling, everything he was thinking, in those facets of perspicuity.

It was just one more thing he could prove her wrong about.

"I want…no, that's not the right word," he muttered to himself.

"Just say it, Malfoy. You want to see my heart break all over again, because let's be honest: that's all you've _ever_ wanted, isn't it?" she demanded harshly.

"No! That's what I thought I wanted up until about ten minutes ago," he responded, imploring her to understand.

"Right," she snorted, ducking behind him to leave the room.

"Granger, please don't leave," he said softly, begging her. "I…"

"You what, Malfoy?" she asked, her back to him and her eyelids snapped shut. "You _what_?"

"_I need you_," he answered helplessly, taking note of the stiffness of her shoulders.

Hermione couldn't let herself move, couldn't let herself think. If she did, she'd realize that he was fulfilling that impossible dream she'd been fostering ever since he'd instigated his deceit. If she did, she'd let herself realize what that meant and fly into his arms, finally being able to know what it felt like to be held by them.

If she did, she'd set herself up for the kind of misery people only read about, but few had the misfortune to actually experience.

So she remained motionless, willing herself not to speak.

"Granger?" he said cautiously, taking a step forward and placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me," she choked out.

"Granger, I--"

"Stop _lying_ already! It's practically _sadistic_ what you're doing, d'you realize that? All you do is…all you want is…it just _hurts_ so _much_…"

She was crying then, tears falling so inelegantly and so sporadically she almost didn't notice. She couldn't feel the bittersweet moisture trickling down her cheeks, couldn't feel anything but his arms as he swept her up in an embrace that was more despondent that tender.

She sobbed into his chest, refusing to remember that it was Malfoy who was comforting her, Malfoy who had hurt her to begin with.

But then again, hadn't it _always_ been him?

OOO


	15. XV

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Never having been the type to wallow in self-pity, I just want to reassure those who were unduly disturbed by the distinctly bitter note of my last author's note. I have in no way allowed my personal life to interfere with a story, and can therefore ensure that, while I am by no means back to normal, I will continue to have this story go in the direction that I think it should. Writing, as **_Danish Pastry 28_** said, is indeed therapeutic, and there's nothing better than writing a realistically imperfect love story. No need to worry about my imbalanced emotional state; it would be difficult to write a believable piece without having lived a bit, right? I'm not a fresh-faced, naïve, good-intentioned eleven-year old, which hopefully gives me a less subjective outlook on romance and all its gritty counterparts. Sorry for the shortness of this chapter, but it's important and I don't like to dwell needlessly on the profundity of what I write.

OOO

Despite her almost helpless clinging, he was conscious of the indecision radiating from her body, cutting into his heart so much more effectively than a knife; she was desperate to not have to bear the burden of a broken heart alone, and he was convenient.

She didn't trust him, and he ruefully had to admit she had no reason to. She was sensible, and he was dangerous: he'd done nothing but resent her for her talents and torture her mercilessly for six years. The fact that he had so ruthlessly exploited her trust in him, that he had so callously wanted to delight in her suffering only made it worse.

He was ashamed of his past actions, but he could not entirely regret them. She'd played her part in aggravating him and she couldn't deny a small portion of the blame.

In a different world, a different time, they might have been perfect for one another; in different circumstances, they might have grown to love each other.

But it wasn't a different world, and it wasn't a different time: they'd grown up hating each other with a passion that exceeded the boundaries of a childhood rivalry. There was no real chance of reconciliation. Too many factors stood against them, too many people and too many words.

Neither of them could take back what they'd thought, and felt, and _said_, as much as they wanted to.

He wasn't even sure he _did_ want to. Now that he held her in his arms, now that he could savor the heady sensation of having her body pressed against his, her cheek against his chest, he doubted himself.

What did it matter if one person could change him? He still had his ideals, and she still had hers: it wasn't reassuring to know that their respective principles were complete opposites. They were too dissimilar to be compatible, too suspicious of each others intentions to be complementary.

He despised her friends, and she was disdainful of his House; he already knew what his future entailed, and it wasn't her; she had the patriotic fervor that implied she would gladly die for her cause.

But besides the practical reasons, he couldn't shake the creeping sense of inferiority that was so unnerving in its precision. She was the one crying, the one holding on to him as if for dear life; but he was the weaker one.

She didn't try to run away from her opinions, didn't try and escape what she knew was inevitable. He looked back and was disgusted with his cowardice. But she, she had so magnificently held her ground, so strongly maintained her derision, her scorn. She had given in to his offer of a comforting embrace, but was still fighting him.

He didn't think she'd ever stop.

They both knew he couldn't make her happy, could never fulfill her blurry dreams of romanticism. His only choice was to let her go, to pry those warm fingers from his shoulders and let her walk away.

He didn't know when she'd come to mean so much to him, when he'd decided that her feelings were paramount to his own.

It was his deference to her character that made him pull away, holding her at arm's length to keep her from scrambling back to him. He gazed down at her tearstained face, her puffy red eyes and her forehead creased in confusion.

"I can't be what you need," he stated bluntly, avoiding her searching glance.

Rather than slowly bursting into hysterics, as he'd half-expected, she snorted and crossed hugged herself.

"I expected this, you know," she replied with practiced indifference. "I was sort of waiting for it."

"What," he asked slowly, "are you talking about?"

"Never mind," she snapped back, turning away to descend the stairs. "It doesn't matter." He grabbed her elbow and spun her around.

"Tell me," he demanded dangerously, glaring at her.

"No," she answered loftily, quickly.

"Fine. Don't. I don't even know what I was thinking, coming up here, trying to explain something I probably made up to pass the time," he shot at her, sneering.

"Undoubtedly," she said, spinning on her heel. When she reached the archway that led to the steps, she twisted her head back towards him. "Oh, and Malfoy? Thanks for shoving me away. It felt a lot more normal than anything else that's been happening lately."

He gaped at her back, too stunned to respond. She had just called his bluff, and he was too surprised to be embarrassed.

She'd seen through his selfish façade, seen through what he'd deluded himself into thinking was for her benefit. He'd been spineless once more, hadn't been able to face what she did with such ease.

He'd lost once more in their battle of wits, had let her defeat him so soundly he expected that her inner turmoil was thriving on his trepidation. He hadn't done what he'd done to protect her, to make her happier. He'd done it because he was afraid of doing something else.

He had known all his life what he would become, who he would become. He'd thought that he'd tricked fate into forgetting about him. He had been so unwilling to allow anything unplanned or unknown effect him; he didn't want to be unaware of what was happening to him.

But then he'd snatched up that paper in a crucial move of impetuosity and he was paying for it. Fate had intervened and forced him to see a side of Granger that was vulnerable and brave all at once. She'd awakened in him an emotion that was as much fantastical as it was painfully real.

Around her, he was sentient of more than just her: he could see himself through her eyes, and he didn't like what he saw.

He was a boy who had more aspirations than accomplishments, more power than he was capable of wielding; he had more problems than solutions, more questions than answers. He was weak and indecisive, jealous and bitter.

And he'd just thrown away his last chance to change that.

OOO


	16. XVI

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

_A glance; a whisper; a fleeting touch from her glorious fingertips, and I'm lost. Watching her graceless dancing is indistinguishable from spending a lifetime in my own sweet nirvana. Her inelegance is appallingly gorgeous; her coarse manners grotesquely beautiful. Her eloquence seeks a reminder for its liquid poetry: a gasp released from between those lips says a hundred different things. Her wary disposition is merely enhanced by my own wonderment. In a whirl of dry regret I realize too late her perfection. Yet in a fit of fastidious irony it was her all too obvious flaws that were the spark of my comprehension._

OOO

Draco let a grimace of distaste float across his face as he read what was so gloriously written on the parchment that had been stuck in a library book. He recognized the handwriting as that of the faceless character he'd unknowingly impersonated; his own deceit was haunting him mercilessly and he was powerless to stop it.

It had been four agonizing days since he'd last spoken to her. Four excruciating days since he'd held her in his arms and known true, complete, _sincere_ joy. Four days since he'd tossed aside his last shot at redemption and refused to look back.

He thought about the way she'd been molded against him, her small frame fitting so perfectly against his own. He thought about how her lips had been so invitingly pink, glistening as she wet them with her tongue, preparing to speak. He thought about how her eyes had been wide and unprecedented, her sinfully long lashes brushing against her silky cheeks as her eyelids fluttered shut. He thought about what she'd said, and what he'd said, and what he'd _wanted_ to say.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

All of his pretentious pragmatism was spiraling away from him, only to be replaced by the kind of ridiculous idealism he'd never let himself be consumed with. He wanted to laugh at his pointless attempts to thwart his destiny, to mask his feelings with affected practicality. He had wasted so much time; precious, _precious_, time.

Tossing aside the paper that he held limply with one hand, he jumped to his feet and ran from the library. He sprinted to the empty corridor that led to the Astronomy Tower, ascending the steps with such speed that he nearly tripped.

When he reached the room at the top, he found it depressingly vacant.

Sighing, he sat down to wait. He knew she'd come. She had to come.

He just hoped she'd talk.

OOO

Hermione was rifling through the pages of a book in the library when a folded slip of parchment fell out. Without hesitating, she read the words she knew to be written by Dean Thomas, her lungs almost bursting as she fought to breathe. How she wished she could have done the sensible thing and fallen in love with a fellow Gryffindor.

But she'd been deluded by Malfoy and his deceit, been lured to her own destruction by her worst enemy. And now she was so superbly trapped she could almost smile at it. But only almost.

She thought about what she was reading, the stupefaction that was so genuinely illustrated throughout the text. She thought about how Malfoy had told her that he couldn't possibly be what she needed. She thought about the way his normally expressive gray eyes had been shuttered, how his smirk had been suspiciously absent as he'd taunted her. She thought about what he'd said, and what she'd said, and what she'd _wanted_ to say.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

She understood his reluctance to give up what he believed in. She, too, was afraid to forsake the acceptance of her peers to fall in love with a Slytherin.

But love was too rare, too tenuous and too fragile to be taken for granted so easily. He represented everything she hated and fought against, everything she'd once vowed to dispel from the world; he was her antichrist and she loved him for it.

He was so magnificently flawed, so perfectly imperfect in his catastrophic resentment and callousness. He'd hurt her so much in the past, had mangled her already broken heart so that it was almost unrecognizable; but she'd let herself be angry for too long. It was far more painful to hate him when she knew she wouldn't be able to stop herself from falling at his feet and begging him to love her.

She closed the book she held in her hand and dropped it, walking from the library and heading towards the Astronomy Tower.

OOO

He heard her coming before he saw her. She was gulping in air as she traversed the steps, and he gave a sigh of relief as he realized who was coming. He found he had no idea what to say to her when she stopped in the archway, however.

A tense silence reigned over the room, filled with inherent secrets and a multitude of doubt. She was the first to break it:

"Have you ever really thought about how different we are?" she asked, startling him.

"Yes. That's part of the reason I'm so terrified of you," he replied honestly.

"And I was so convinced I was the only scared one," she told him, arching her eyebrows.

"You? You're _frightened_ of me? Apparently I've misjudged all of your reactions to me in the past six years."

"Well, even you, dense as you are, have to be aware of the fact that it's good sense to be petrified of someone who can induce such _emptiness_," she answered him distantly.

"About that. I…have treated you abominably recently."

She was quiet, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't she crossed her arms over her chest and leveled him with a bemused stare.

"What? That's it? No dramatic apology, no momentous declaration of love? You're just going to admit you're wrong and not even _fight_ for me?" she demanded.

"It's not like you'd _believe_ me, if I said anything even remotely meaningful, so I suppose I'll just take what I can get," he shot back cruelly.

"A rough estimate of what you can get is--" she stopped, blinking. Shaking her head, she tilted it back, biting her lip and snorting. "So this is it, isn't it? We're just going to do this all over again, the fighting and the crying and the yelling…"

He had been so prepared to strike back with a cunning retort that he was floored by her soft observation.

"Listen," he finally responded, training his gaze on the wall behind her, "I didn't just want to say that to you. I wanted to tell you so much more, but I need to know something."

"What? What do you need to know?"

"Are you willing to give it all up, Granger?"

"What are you talking about?" she inquired, an ominous chill creeping up her spine.

"I'm talking about everything. The delightful popularity you revel in, the never-ending respect of your friends, the stunning opportunities you could have as Potter's sidekick. Your standards and your morals and your _future_. Would you give it up?"

She gaped at him, unprepared for such a question.

"I…I don't know," she mumbled.

"Not good enough, Granger," he said.

"Oh, who are we kidding? We don't even call each other by our first names! How is it that two people can fancy themselves in love when their close bond is exemplified by the _startling_ intimacy found in their _surnames_?" she burst out, wanting to fall onto the ground in hysterics. She felt laughter bubble up inside of her.

"_I'd give it up for you, Granger. All of it,_" he told her in a low voice. After a pause, he continued, "I mean, _Hermione_."

He brushed past her and left, her name echoing throughout the chamber as she felt her heart beating so fast she was sure it would burst through her chest. Several minutes later, a solitary tear glided down her cheek.

"I would too, Draco. I would too," she whispered into the darkness.

OOO


	17. XVII

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**_Danish Pastry 28_**: Usually I can't answer questions about whether or not something is going to happen in one of my stories. But I can say with a great deal of certainty that there is no possible way to make this a romance if I included their friends' reactions to their relationship. It would be a challenge, I suppose, but one that doesn't _particularly_ interest me. The best part of any Draco/Hermione love story is in how they manage to overcome their utter hatred and transform it into something far better. It would be anticlimactic to have them confess their undying love and then have to deal with the ever-present scorn of their classmates. Oddly for me, though, I have the final scene of this story planned out perfectly. I think the next chapter will be the last, but if anything else I've written before this is an indication, it's entirely probable that this could drag on for another twenty chapters. Thanks for your almost amusingly long reviews, however; they're quite a bit of fun to read. Makes me feel like a _real_ writer rather than an aspiring novelist whose creative writing professors would faint if they knew she was spending her summer writing fanfiction.

OOO

Draco was miserable to the point of agony as he trudged down the stairs that led up to the Astronomy Tower.

He'd let her in on the biggest secret of his short life, and she'd _hesitated_. She'd been indecisive and doubtful, her uncertainty so painful to witness he'd had to leave. She couldn't know how much she'd hurt him. The way she'd gaped at him after his sarcastic use of her first name was proof of that.

But he couldn't let her go.

He'd never been under a spell quite like the one she'd ensnared him with; everything was so much sharper, so much clearer, when she was around. He needed her to protect him from himself, and he hadn't been lying when he'd said he would give _everything_ up for that. He was still the same selfish little boy he'd been six years ago; he was thinking of nothing but his own safety, and she was his savior.

He was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, but she wasn't. He was ready to change his entire life for one person, and she wasn't.

"Draco! Wait!" he heard her call, breaking into his thoughts. He watched, with some amusement, as she practically flew towards him, her hair streaming out behind her and her cheeks flushed from exertion.

She was so stunningly beautiful, his breath caught.

"What is it, _Hermione_?" he asked pointedly, putting extra emphasis on her name.

"I need to know something," she replied, her penetrating gaze searing into him.

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Do you love me?"

He heard the question as if he was far, far away; and he wished desperately that he was. He'd never dared to ponder what _exactly_ it was that he felt for her, but now it seemed he had no choice.

He knew that he didn't like her, that they had next to nothing in common, and argued incessantly. He knew that their friends hated each other, that when the time came they'd be on different sides of the battle, and that up until a few weeks ago they'd each have gladly murdered the other.

He knew that he would gladly forfeit everything and everyone he held dear just for the security she offered; he would surrender his beliefs, surrender his inheritance, and surrender his friends: just for her. He knew that he wanted more than anything to have her close by, wanted to drape his arm so carelessly across her shoulder without being hexed for it; he knew that he wanted _her_ to love him, wanted her to stare up at him with those big brown eyes close to bursting with affection.

A slow smile affixed itself across his face as he regarded her steadily.

"I can't possibly love you, Hermione. I'm supposed to hate you, remember? I'm supposed to curse your name and wish you were dead. I'm supposed to lie to you and call you names and break your heart," he whispered, taking a step towards her.

She didn't back away, didn't risk moving.

"I'm supposed to forget you're smarter than me and remember everything you've ever done better. I'm supposed to think of you as Potter's lackey, Potter's friend, Potter's helper. But guess what?"

She was afraid to blink.

"I'm defying convention, Hermione. I'm telling you I love you, telling you that I'll break all the rules for you. I'm telling you that nothing and no one matters as much to me as you do. I'm telling you everything you won't believe and everything you want to. I'm telling you the truth," he murmured, a scant few inches between their bodies.

She did nothing but close off the remaining distance, relaxing into his embrace without delay.

It was a kiss of tenderness rather than passionate ferocity; his mind was reeling at the exhilarating sensation that should have been unsettling but he found to be thrilling. His mouth moved over hers, his tongue tracing her lips as she gasped; his knuckles grazed over the delicate line of her jaw, eliciting a shiver as she pressed closer. His hands wandered down her back and encircled her waist, her own fingers curling around the back of his neck and faintly trailing through his hair. She could feel every delicious inch of him, every wonderful, totally inadequate, part of him rubbing against her.

"Draco," she said breathlessly, pulling back.

"Yeah?" he responded, in a staggering daze.

"I just wanted you to know that I changed my answer," she told him, her chest heaving.

"What are you talking about?" he asked quizzically, raising an eyebrow.

"I know now. I know if I'd give it all up for you," she answered.

He said nothing, merely let her go and returned to his place in the corridor.

"Draco, I would do _anything_ for--" she stopped, her expression changing instantly as she caught sight of something behind him.

"What--"

"Hermione? Is he bothering you?" Harry Potter, hero-boy extraordinaire, stood a few feet behind Draco, his frown a clear indication of his displeasure at seeing his best friend and his worst nightmare together.

"Oh. Harry. Hello," she responded uneasily, her startled, frightened gaze flying back and forth between the two boys.

"Yeah, Hermione, am I bothering you?" Draco inquired coldly, knowing that she wouldn't treat him any differently than she was supposed to. Not in front of Potter.

"Well…no," she said noncommittally.

"I told you to leave her alone, Malfoy," Potter turned his attention to Draco.

"Whatever, Potter. Your precious girlfriend just happened to ruin my day, so if you'll excuse me I'll go back to plotting your untimely deaths."

He swept past them both, casting Hermione a thoroughly disgusted look before rounding the corner and collapsing in an empty classroom.

He was fairly sure she'd just broken his heart.

OOO

She'd gotten rid of Harry somehow, explaining quickly that she just needed some time alone. As soon as he'd left her, she raced down the corridor and began flinging open doors, hoping against hope he was somewhere she could find him.

She saw him sitting on a desk facing a window, his knees pulled up and his arms folded across them.

"Draco," she implored, breaking through his reverie, "I just wanted--"

"Wanted what? To tell me how _very much_ you're willing to give up for me?" he laughed harshly, the sound echoing through the room and making her wince.

"You can't begin to understand how betrayed Harry would feel--"

"Oh, believe me Granger. I can understand. Betrayal's my specialty, remember? And as a connoisseur, let me congratulate you on your _superb_ edification of it," he snarled, sliding to his feet and swatting at a chair.

"Like you would have done any different!" she shouted, finally getting angry.

"How nice that you're relieving yourself of that Gryffindor stereotype that all of us Slytherins are too detached and _unfeeling_ to have real friends whose opinion we value," he shot back, his voice brittle and his eyes flashing.

He didn't deny her accusation, simply because he wasn't really certain what he would have done had it been a Slytherin that had walked by.

Furious that she had made a valid point, he strode to the doorway and ignored her guttural protest.

"One last thing, Granger," he said, feigning indifference and swallowing painfully. "I meant what I said. Every single word."

She let him leave, knowing that he'd only said it to make her feel guilty, to make her feel just as terrible as he did.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled to the empty classroom. "So, _so_ sorry." A strangled sob, and then, "I love you. That's what I was going to say. All I was going to say."

But even she knew she had spoken too late.

OOO


	18. XVIII

**A Little Piece of Sincerity**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: I would just like to say that this is the final chapter. After this, there won't be anymore updates. I would like to thank anyone and everyone who reviewed this story: I have never had so many people tell me my writing was beautiful. For all of those who made comments on Dean Thomas's little excerpts, I want to give you my immense gratitude. Those bits of writing were taken directly from my lovely green notebook and I found it entirely too coincidental that so much of what I'd observed from the past could be applied to a story I was _currently_ writing. Just goes to show you how much of life just goes back to same principles, the same _guidelines_, if you will. Thanks so much.

OOO

**_Danish Pastry 28_**: You are the best fan anyone could ask for. Your reviews are insightful and complimentary and I meant no offense when I called them 'amusingly long'. Thanks for all your support and I look forward to writing another fic so you can critique it.

OOO

He'd heard her. He'd heard that magnificently heartbreaking declaration, spoken too late and with too much finality. She'd sobbed out her love, turning it into a farewell rather than a thing of beauty; sentiment was not his strong suit, but even he had been able to detect her regret and disappointment. She'd given up and proven herself a hypocrite.

She'd accused him of being unwilling to fight for her, unwilling to make the big, romantic gestures she craved. But she, the supposed victim in their history, the one who'd been unjustly tormented and put on a brave face when all she wanted to do was cry; she, not he, had been the one to falter.

To let her resolve crumble into nothingness. She'd been torn between a lifetime of fire, of enthusiasm, of unpredictability, of pure, unadulterated captivation; and a lifetime of comfort. She hadn't made her choice.

So he'd made it for her.

OOO

Hermione felt as if she was standing before a precipice whose edge was looming closer and closer; she had to decide whether to jump into that chasm or run back to the relative safety that she had momentarily escaped. The abyss that confronted her was vast and deep and totally unknown: she had no idea what awaited her at the bottom, but logic told her it was certain suicide.

Her entire life up until then had been dominated by common sense. She'd been sensible rather than emotional, prudent rather than reckless. There was no such thing as impulsiveness for her, nothing close to impetuosity. She was neat and organized and was a firm believer in being careful and never letting her deeply rooted vulnerability get the best of her.

Looking into the achingly familiar emerald eyes of her best friend, she had recognized the first stirrings of rebellion.

Caution and acquiescence had brought her nothing but anguish where Draco Malfoy was concerned. She hadn't trusted herself, but had put every ounce of her faith in the rationale that he was doing nothing but joyously deluding her, tempting her with faulty apologies and ploys of sincerity. Her paranoia at the harm he'd inflicted on her in the past had blinded her to so much that she was astonished she could possess so much intelligence, so much knowledge, but be so incredibly stupid in regards to the only thing that really mattered.

All those books she'd devoured, all those pointless facts and droll essays she'd memorized, and they all came to nothing. She had thought that she valued wisdom above all else, that she wouldn't be one of those flighty females who let themselves be consumed by a mere _emotion_. But she was naïve when it came to love, was almost afraid to test its strength: she had no idea that if what she was so convinced was real was actually a fabrication of her own conscience.

She no longer wanted to know everything. She had next to no desire to be the smartest witch of her generation. Her ambitions all paled in comparison to the kiss that had haunted her dreams with its trenchant absolution and its unforgiving passion.

She had made the biggest mistake of her life when she'd chosen Harry and his affability over Draco and his feverous implications. She'd thought at the time that she could have both, that she could juggle her friendship and her romance just like she'd juggled having nine classes in a single day.

But she'd realized after Draco's outburst that she couldn't have that. She had to make a sacrifice, like he had; she had to pick one or the other, like he had.

How ironic, she mused, that she was looking to him for guidance. That she was preparing herself to emanate his actions, his decisions, when she had, for so long, called him the bane of her existence.

For she'd already reached the verdict involving that monstrous hollow whose pits were cloaked in mystery: she was a jumper. Her only reservation lay in the niggling worry that no one would be able to save her from the fall.

OOO

As soon as he saw her approaching his table, a look of determination pasted across her face, his heart dropped.

If she prostrated herself before him, begging and pleading for compassion, he wouldn't be able to deny her. But he knew he had to: she clearly valued her friends more than him, and would resent him for the rest of her life if he tore her away from them.

"Draco," she began, abruptly stopping when he cut her off with a glare.

"I don't want to hear it," he intoned harshly, glancing around to make sure no one had seen them conversing.

"But you need to know--"

"Shouldn't you be worried about other things than my feelings, Granger?" he interrupted loudly. "Such as, oh, I don't know, maybe being seen talking to me by the stalkers you refer to as companions? After all, I think we both know that--"

"Stop it!" she shrieked, holding her hands over her ears and effectively drawing the attention of every other student in the library. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

He stared at her, temporarily shocked.

"Do you think I don't _know_ that I was wrong to do what I did yesterday? Do you think I haven't been wishing I still had a time-turner so I could go back and change it? But I don't, and you refuse to listen, so I'm going to _make_ you listen," she said angrily, shoving his shoulders back so he was seated in a chair.

She didn't even notice that an audience had gathered in the library, Harry and Ron and Ginny all standing next to a bookshelf, watching her.

"I've always been known as the brightest witch in our year. The know-it-all. The one who doesn't break rules and frowns on swearing. I didn't want to believe that anything I felt for you was real, didn't want to believe _you_ for fear I'd fall in love and say things I couldn't ever take back. You didn't make _sense_, and I couldn't stand for it."

She paused, imploring him to understand.

"But once it starts, you can't stop it. There's no way to reverse something you couldn't help in the first place. I wanted to so badly, I wanted to forget all about you and try and remember who I was and who _you_ were," she whispered, unaware of the ripple of agitation in the crowd of onlookers.

"But I couldn't. And now…now, I don't want to."

A smile broke through, and she knelt before him, taking his hands and pleading with her eyes for forgiveness.

He didn't let his expression change, didn't let a glimmer of sentimentality show through the mask he'd put up as soon as she'd started to talk. He was hearing everything he'd never wanted, everything he had thought would encompass a nightmare rather than a brilliant dream.

This was the scene he had, for so long, thought would be his final revenge: she, presenting herself at his mercy; he, prolonging her agony by feigning indecision.

Slowly, he rose to stand and took her with him.

"Draco?" she asked nervously, clutching his fingers with hopeful desperation.

"I just have to know one thing," he replied softly, a ghost of a smirk gracing his lips.

"What? What is it?"

"Are you willing to give it all up?" He breathed the inquiry into her ear, holding her close.

"Draco. I love you," she responded simply, her head tilted back as she met his piercing gaze.

Ignoring the gasps of outrage coming from their spectators, he lowered his mouth for a kiss.

That was answer enough.

OOO

**THE END**


End file.
